Fairest of Them All
by T'Pring
Summary: The people of the Pegasus Galaxy find lots of things to celebrate. When John is "invited" to the Festival of the Fair, he finds himself the Guest of Honor...and that's really not a good thing.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This little romp came from musing about a "drama" unfolding in my kitchen fish tank, go figure. The fish story appears at the end. Not meant to be profound or even particularly good. ;-) Just some classic ShepWhump and a downright indulgent ending! Story is finished. __Let the Festival Begin!_

**Fairest of them All** by t'pring

"Well, this is new," John Sheppard mumbled. The words felt like cotton balls on his dry, thickened tongue. The guard on his right arm shot a glare his way, then gripped even tighter as they walked. _Probably shouldn't have said anything_, he thought, _but...crap! This is just...new._ Not all of the bizarre imagery surrounding him could be accounted for by the drugs swirling through his bloodstream and buzzing between his ears.

He was being "escorted" down a long, cobblestone street bordered by some of the most spectacular buildings John had seen in the Pegasus Galaxy. If you like Greco-Roman architecture, that is. All the buildings boasted marble steps and porches, intricately carved wooden roofs and twisted iron trim. The columns on the porches were the only features that didn't look like they'd come from vomiting up a greek history book - most boasted grotesque, totem pole/gargoyle-like carvings in glossy black wood.

The crowd lining the street was even stranger. Every person (and there were a lot of them, two to three hundred) was dressed for a party. The fabrics on the women's dresses and the men's shirts were bright and luxurious. Cuffs, hems, and collars were decorated with elaborate lace and beads. The pungent tang of sweaty cloth was thick in the mid-summer evening's heat. Everyone was cheering the parade John found himself in, going along behind a juggling act and in front of a stately buffoon surrounded by pompous, fake-spear-toting, guards. Children were perched on parents' shoulders waving bright paper pom poms.

And every single one of them - from the youngest child, to the middle-agers in their prime, to the oldest crone - was...hideous. It was the ugliest bunch of people John had ever encountered all in once place. He kept blinking his eyes (that kept going too wide on him), trying to find a single attractive face among the lopsided, scarred, low-browed and buck-toothed bunch. He gave up when the guards growled at him and twisted his already bruised arms for staring at a particularly ugly woman wearing gold chiffon and a purple bow.

Maybe it is the drugs, he told himself. Beer goggles on steroids...and reversed. He really hoped so.

As he walked (stumbled drunkenly, to be honest), the crowd waved and jeered at him as he passed. The boos thrown his way were cheerful, happy even. It made him think of a melodrama a girl had taken him to, where the audience cheered the hero and booed and threw peanuts at the villain. His date had gotten pissed when he got a little too enthusiastic with his own projectiles and kept pegging the hero between the eyes, making him miss his lines. She hadn't been at all mollified by his suggestion that he was just "taking out the competition." That had been his last (and only) date with that woman, he remembered.

"No sense of humor," he muttered, remembering he was supposed to be pulling the silent routine only after the words had slipped out.

"Kill the Pretty!" a voice screamed from the crowd, just beyond John's escort. A splash of tepid water was thrown into his face and he spluttered for a moment, unable to wipe at his eyes. Sour drips dribbled down his neck and his black t-shirt stuck to his chest and shoulders in sticky dampness.

"Ho, there!" guffawed one of John's guards, sounding not at all upset, "Not yet, citizen. This Pretty is for Final Feast." John gulped.

Another cup of water drenched his shirt, followed by a handful of trash. The guards were laughing, offering up only token resistance as they walked along. Taunts of "Have some water, Pretty!" and "Not so pretty, now, are you?" were thrown his way...along with more garbage.

A particularly hard glob of something stung John's cheek and he snapped, overcoming the lethargy of the drugs enough to balk. He planted his feet, threw up his arms and slipped out of the guards' grasp rather more easily than he'd expected. He turned on his heel to run away from wherever they were taking him and made it all of three steps before his legs turned to jelly. He stumbled, forced his feet to take another step, then swayed drunkenly sideways. The harder he tried to move, the more his body betrayed him. He staggered in the opposite direction, fell to one knee, pushed himself halfway up one last time before landing on his butt in the middle of the cobblestone street.

"Get it out of my way," roared a deep and decidedly haughty voice. John was panting in great gasping wheezes as he looked up at the towering form of the dignitary who had been marching behind him. He saw a wild, black beard bordering a horribly twisted face at the top of the green, silk mountain. "Control the Pretty, guardsman, or you'll find yourself sharing its cage!"

"Yes, Lord Argyle!"

The guards hastened to yank John back to his feet, but they were grinning. John heard the crowd laughing and hooting with redoubled glee. More water and trash pelted him as they resumed the parade, but John's heart was still racing with the drug-induced, paralytic panic. He felt nauseous. The water on his head and neck just almost felt good.

John was just beginning to become aware of his surroundings again as the parade emptied out into a huge courtyard of inlaid marble and hundreds of gaudy topiary plants that looked like they might have once been pruned into tidy shapes, but had been left to grow wild. A large pavilion dominated the end of the courtyard and the crowds filled the space from one side to the other, leaving only a narrow passage for John and the guards.

"This is just really not good," he muttered again once the pavilion came more clearly into view. The ornate roof of the pavilion covered a cage about the size of Atlantis's gateroom, though not as tall. Black iron bars marched around the three open sides, and as he was hauled towards an iron gate, John could see that a wire screen separated the box into two halves. The middle screen looked decidedly weaker than the outer bars and seemed temporary somehow. Each half contained a low jumble of boulders in the center. John got the strong impression that the cage had been designed for animals - it looked just like a lion habitat at a zoo.

John was shoved through the gate and stumbled. Between the drugs and the uneven gravel flooring, he fell onto his butt again and decided he'd just stay there. The crowd outside the bars roared with laughter and pointed. John wrapped his arms around his knees and clasped his hands tightly together, trying hard to stop the tremors through his fingers. To distract himself from the nauseous feeling of the drugs, he watched the dignitary step in front of the cage and raise his hands for attention from the audience. The babble grew softer, but the rustle of fancy fabric and murmur of conversation continued.

"Citizens!" Bellowed the pompous buffoon. He addressed the crowd with the air of a politician at a rally. "Tonight we begin the Festival of the Fair with laughter and merriment!" The crowd cheered. "For three nights, we celebrate without fear and without ridicule. For three nights, the Pretties have no power over us. For three nights," he raised his hands and the crowd screamed the next words along with him, "We are the Fairest of them All!"

"You have got to be kidding me," John muttered, completely nonplussed. He was in some kind of damn fairy tale and he didn't know how he fit in, exactly. Aside from being a "pretty". Whatever that was.

The buffoon was waving for attention again and the crowd quieted, if only marginally.

"Citizens! There is more to the festival than merrymaking free from the contempt of the pretties. The Festival of the Fair is a symbol of our inner beauty, of the strength of our inner beings. For at this festival, alone, do we triumph over the mockery of our forms. At Final Feast, we will witness the victory of inner beauty over that which is merely superficial. Welcome our champion to the pavilion!"

The dignitary swept his arms behind him and John couldn't help but follow the gesture. Two (much more serious looking) guards were wrestling a startling figure through the gate on the opposite side of the temporary fencing. The creature - John could hardly bring himself to call it a man - was dressed in a simple loincloth tied with rope. His bare and deeply tanned torso was thin to just-this-side-of emmaciated, but rippled with flat, wiry muscles. He was streaked with mud in patterns that almost looked deliberate. His sun-darkened face was lined with more mud below a wild shock of short, matted grey hair. One eye was milky white in a scarred socket. The other was bright and clear but...disturbing.

The guards gave him a shove as they had John, then closed the gate with obvious haste. The man didn't stumble, but froze inside the door like a cat, clearly scanning the room with an eye for detail and a mind for escape. When his gaze flicked through the wire towards John, he tensed further and John almost squirmed under the intense scrutiny. The dignitary quieted the crowd once more.

"The Final Feast represents triumph of spirit, symbolized by the contest between the Fair and the Pretty." John peered sharply at the dignitary. _Contest? Between me and...who? The animal man?_ His heart raced a bit at the direction his thoughts were going and, just as quickly, he felt the drugs respond with a nauseating comeback.

"But today we celebrate power. Together we are powerful. For these three nights, we suffer no consequences for expressing the rage which is rightfully ours to claim. Tonight, we gather the embers of contempt and abuse and fan them into flames of retribution. Today...we take revenge!"

The crowd fairly exploded with glee at the words and the dignitary waded back into the courtyard. A frightening chant, "Revenge! Revenge! Today we take revenge!" filled the space.

A third set of guards was pushing through the crowd towards what John had thought was a flagpole of some sort, but as the people spread to let the guards and the dignitary intersect, he gasped and struggled to his feet to see more clearly. The pavilion was two or three steps above the courtyard, so he could just see the young woman hanging between the guards. She had long, wavy brown hair and a sweet round face and was dressed in a white cotton gown. She was hardly conscious, although she kept her feet under her. Probably drugged, too, John thought. A horrible feeling of dread was kicking up the flutter his chest and he grabbed at the bars to steady himself from his own drug cocktail.

It wasn't a flagpole.

The guards heaved the bemused woman onto a small platform nailed to the pole, suspended just above a huge pile of logs and kindling. John began to pant in horror, the drugs and emotion twisting his breath into ragged gasps. The woman was tied tightly upright, her chin lolling against her chest, unaware.

"Stop! Damn you to hell! Stop!" John found himself screaming as the dignitary accepted a torch from someone in the crowd and lowered it towards the logs. He shook the bars on his cage, ran to the gate and shook the door until the hinges rattled, still yelling.

His shouts were drowned by the hysterical chanting and screaming and cheering of the crowd. John paced, his heart pounding, so furious that, for a moment, the drugs couldn't compete.

"No!"

The logs caught instantly and roared into a huge pillar of fire, engulfing the woman in orange-red flames. The crowd cried out in unison, then fell almost silent, watching.

John spun away and leaned his back against the bars, fighting down nausea. He was shaking violently with disgust and rage and...fear. A growl was the only warning he got before a filthy claw reached through from the other side of the cage and raked down his cheek and neck, hooking on the collar of his t-shirt before he could jerk away.

"What the...!" he gasped, slapping a hand over the scratches.

The man/creature was prowling the other side of the temporary screen, his eyes wild and excited.

"Damn you!" John yelled at the thing, losing his temper. His fingers came away from his cheek with drips of blood on them.

"Sssssssssskk," the man hissed and lunged at the screen again, rattling the wire before prowling again.

John staggered to the far opposite corner of the cage and sank into a small ball against the iron bars. Behind him, the sound and sickening smell of the bonfire crackled in the dusky light of the courtyard. Somewhere, music began to play a lively jig.

"Look, Mama. The Pretty is sad!" piped a small cheerful voice from beyond the bars.

John shivered and curled up even tighter. He couldn't stop his mind from drifting to "the contest" he was supposedly going to have a part in. Three nights. Two days? That was long enough, right? They'd find him before then, surely. Teyla would be scouring her contacts for rumors about insane ugly people kidnapping normal people. Rodney would download every address in the gate network. Ronon would crack skulls until someone talked. John lifted his head and found his cellmate peering at him. It leaped at the wire, shook it til it rattled, then continued to pace.

"Yeah, don't look so smug, friend," John told it. "I'm not going to be around for this contest thing, so don't get your hopes all up." He dropped his head back on his knees. "They'll find me." He said the words for himself, this time. "There's plenty of time. They'll find me."

"Ssssssssskk," it replied.


	2. Chapter 2

John spent the first night cold and hungry and thirsty. The revelers danced and shouted around the bonfire until the first rays of the rising sun began to paint a pink glow in the Eastern sky, then wandered away in groups and families to disappear under the shrouded porches and steps of the surrounding buildings. A few were passed out in the square itself, flopped together or sprawled spectacularly inside their magnificent clothes. John had seen more than one barrel of "beverage" rolled through the party by burly men in matching costumes. When the barrels were empty and the barrel rollers' pockets were full of coins, the empty casks were added to the fire that was kept blue-flame hot all night.

John stayed huddled in his corner, away from the "champion". He couldn't sleep. The noise and some effect of the drugs kept him from being able to go out completely. His damp shirt chilled his skin in the summer breeze, and more heat leeched out into the uncomfortable stone pebbles under him.

As the pink glow became streaks of orange over the roofs on the east site of the courtyard, John eventually discovered he was able to think more clearly. His pulse didn't seem so loud within his chest. He spent some time in the quiet of a spectacular dawn thinking...

The last thing he remembered clearly was wandering down the streets of the market on 227 with Teyla and Ronon. Rodney had made some excuse about some shield on Atlantis needing calibration. John knew that he just didn't like trading missions and, to be honest, John didn't like Rodney on trading missions. He'd walked through the stargate looking forward to a couple days of eating real food and watching Teyla haggle.

He scooted a bit to catch the first warming rays of the sun that was just spilling into his cage and forced himself to remember more. They'd found an inn and spent the evening at the tavern below. John and Ronon had flirted flagrantly with the barmaids, just to annoy Teyla, but they also carefully avoided the attention of local girls (even though he'd spotted a couple looking) - you never knew who's father was going to show up in your negotiations the next day. The barmaids, though, had a kind of "professional" understanding about flirting such that you could get away with it, he'd learned - neither party expected anything to go too far.

As John shivered in his cage, he realized that he enjoyed going offworld so much because it was the closest he got to truly feeling "off duty". Atlantis had recreation areas and his schedule sometimes resembled a normal person's work week. But there was no such thing as "off base". The people were the same and ultimately, they were all either colleagues or civilians under his protection. When he was offworld, sometimes, if they were lucky and the mission was friendly, his team became merely friends and the strangers surrounding him wouldn't look at him oddly in the morning for telling bawdy jokes or giggling a little too much at Ronon's.

He dropped his head onto his knees. Was that why he was here? Had he gotten too comfortable in the friendly little village and let his guard down. Had he been careless? Maybe.

They'd hit the market early the next morning at Teyla's urging. For a while they'd stayed together, but by mid morning, Teyla was hot into negotiations with a farming co-op and Ronon was chatting up the blacksmith so John had wandered among the bright booths and carts and foot traffic by himself. It was a crowded place. According to Teyla, this particular market was well known for its large number of vendors and its uncanny ability to stay one step ahead of Wraith cullings. They moved the market from world to world and people never failed to track it down. Everyone was welcome, which made it dangerous enough that John's tactical vest and weapons prominently displayed on his chest and hip were not considered unusual nor excessive. Most shoppers were armed.

By noon, Teyla had moved her deliberations into the town hall and Ronon was shopping in the tannery. John was thirsty and had just decided to go back to the tavern when he'd felt a tug on his gun holster. John had jumped at the touch and spun to find a mite of a girl looking solemnly up at him and holding a wooden cup of juice.

"Try a sample, misser?" the girl had said as seriously as if she, herself, ran the shop. John shot a look into the nearest booth and saw a woman watching from the door to the alley behind the shops. At the time, and now in memory, John recognized her as one of the barmaids from the tavern. She'd stayed behind the bar, though, washing glasses and rarely mingling with the customers.

With a jolt, John jerked his head up and stared into the horizon of his memory - the woman had been young and pretty enough, but she'd borne a large red birthmark across one whole cheek and down her neck. The little girl had been similarly marked. He hadn't thought about it at the time. Life was a lot harder in Pegasus and the people were often more rugged - though no less handsome in John's opinion - than those from his East Coast upbringing. Now, surrounded by a throng of the hideous, John realized that the marks could not be coincidence.

He'd smiled and dropped to his knee to accept the drink from the little girl.

"This is very good," he'd said with exaggerated enthusiasm, although he didn't mean it. It tasted like mango, and he didn't like mangos. "Did you make this all by yourself?" The girl had grinned for a second, then wiped the smile off quickly, remembering she was supposed to be acting grownup.

"Me mama mades it," she replied, solemn again. "She say you is our special customer. You want some more?"

"That depends. How much do I owe you for this?" He held up the now empty cup and jingled some coins in his pocket.

"Mama say..." the girl looked over her shoulder for confirmation and John grinned when the woman held up two fingers and then made go-on motions, "Mama say two pence. But you gotta pay her. I'se not 'lowed to take the money on account I dropped a bronze in a hole once and we couldn't get it out nohow!"

"All right, then. I'll pay for this cup and have another. You know how to spot thirsty customers," John praised as he rose and stepped over to the booth. It felt five degrees cooler within the shade of the thatch roof and he was grateful. He'd started to feel a little hot and woozy in the sun.

"Mama say you're perfect for the festival. She mades the special juice just for you." The girl was bouncing up and down behind the counter, peeking at him at the top of every hop.

"Festival?" John asked idly, digging through his handful of coins, looking for the right number.

In retrospect, he should have noticed the woman stiffen at the child's words, should have paid attention when she grabbed the child's shoulder and touched her lips for silence. He should have asked what the child meant by "special juice", he realized. At the time, he'd felt suddenly dizzy and had dropped his coins to lean heavily against the counter. The woman had snatched for his elbow, murmuring about a place to sit just behind the shop. He allowed himself to be guided through the door where she'd propped him against a tall crate and handed him another cup, telling him to drink it, that he'd feel better if he did.

By that time, he'd begun to put a few things together and - not entirely out of suspicion, but out of certainty that the juice was the problem - he refused the drink. She wrestled with him for a moment, trying to get him to take more, and he'd shoved away to lurch towards the door. He never made it. His legs went rubbery and two men suddenly appeared to grab him by the arms and toss him into a cart parked nearby. He had a memory of the impression of coarse burlap covering him and the smell of dirt and manure before he passed out.

He'd woken up in the cart on this world, hungover and stripped of weapons, vest, radio and watch. All he'd been left were his shoes, pants and black t-shirt. They'd forced another cup of something down his throat before they'd untied him and started him down the street into the parade.

_Good one, John_. He rebuked himself with a sigh, most of the puzzle fitting into place. _Taken in by a little girl_. He just wondered how he was supposed to have worked up any satisfying suspicion over a woman with a birthmark and a cup of juice. He'd sampled dozens of offerings from shopkeepers that morning alone.

The sun was growing warmer with each passing minute and he was rapidly going from chilled to overheated. The summer day was gearing up to be a scorcher, if his training years in Alabama were anything to go by. The lingering effect of the drugs made his tongue feel like felt, but his head was as clear as it had been since he'd first been drugged. He stood up and stretched, testing out his legs. He paced a few times down the width of his cage before he worked up the courage to glance at the neighboring cell. The animal man was curled up against a rock, asleep, but strangely tense - as if ready to spring at your throat were he to be disturbed.

There was a little more activity out on the courtyard. People were walking around and had traded their finery for ordinary clothing. A few booths were going up at one end of the square, the traders among the crowd unable to resist the temptation of a captive audience.

With a deep breath, John forced himself to look at the bonfire. The pole was completely gone, burned away by the intense heat. Only a smoldering pile of ash and embers remained. A couple of men were adding fresh logs and poking the embers back into low, campfire-like flames. He turned away again, swallowing hard, unable to remove the image of the woman disappearing behind a wall of fire. So. He'd figured out how he got here. He just needed to figure out how to get out.

His pacing became more restless and only exacerbated his hunger and thirst. He'd been hungry before the woman had slipped him the mickey, despite his sampling in the market. He'd only had that cup of juice and the cup of drugs since, too. On one circuit around his cage, he finally noticed that there was a bucket of water and a ladle at the far side of the animal man's cage. He stopped and stared for a moment, stung by the injustice. He reached out to hook his fingers into the wire fencing.

This time, the growl warned him early enough to snap his hand away, but the man slammed his shoulders into the wire with such force that it bulged and rattled against the roof with an ominous scrape. The thing had gone from apparent sleep to violent aggression in a wink. John skittered back a couple of steps, then stood glaring, refusing to be intimidated...but well beyond the man's reach. The scratches from yesterday's encourter were sore and the skin around it was warm, inflamed.

"We're both stuck in here, friend," John tried talking to it. "But the butler is out and they've forgotten to bring me my water. Could you be a pal and maybe...share a scoop or two?"

"Ssssssssssk!" the man hissed, turning his head with each few steps backwards and forwards so that his good eye remained on John.

"You got a name?" he tried again. "Mine is John Sheppard. You know, you help me out, I can help you out. I've got people looking for me. When they bust me out I could put in a good word, have them take you somewhere you'd rather be...?"

If the man understood him, he gave no indication. After another hiss and rattle of the wire, it stalked to the bucket and scooped up the ladle for a drink. It looked at him as it drank deeply, then hissed with what could only be amusement.

"Thanks for nothing, pal!" John yelled, finally, frustrated and even more thirsty than before. "Just stop...thinking about it. That will help," he muttered to himself and put his back to the man and sat on a boulder to stare out at the square. Most people who were about were ignoring the pavilion completely. Some delicious smell from the booths began to drift across the courtyard and John's stomach growled in protest. So much for not thinking about it.

By the time the sun had risen to about 11:00, the air was thick and sweltering. John still sat, listless from hunger and thirst, rapidly succumbing to exhaustion. He'd just about decided to curl up in the shadiest part of his cage for a nap, knowing that - as much as he hated to miss any opportunity that might present itself - he would be better able to take advantage of one if he were rested. A procession of burly guard-type guys caught his attention before he'd settled down. The group of four men was carrying a couple of bowls, a plate of something and another water bucket. His stomach growled again, and he just almost considered accepting the food without trying anything, he was so hungry.

The guards went to the animal man's side first. John couldn't keep himself from licking his lips when the one carrying the bucket splashed its contents through the bars to fill up the one that was already there. With a flare of anger, John watched the water overflow and flood the gravel of the animal man's cage as the fresh water was completely emptied. No bucket for John, then. The guard carrying the plate and one of the bowls went to the iron door and shoved them underneath where there was a wider, horizontal gap. Morbidly curious, John stood on tiptoes to get a peek of the food on the plate - bread, dried meat, some cheese. The bowl was full of fruit. His stomach almost twisted itself upside down with jealousy.

When the men finally strolled towards his side of the cage, John was fuming and it took all his effort to keep his temper and play it cool.

"Hey, thanks for the food and water, boys," he said before they'd wandered even halfway to the iron gate on his side. Only one bowl remained and John could already see that it didn't hold fruit. "Haven't had anything to eat or drink for about a day. Getting pretty hot. Don't want to pass out on you and spoil the festival. Nobody wants to see dead pets lying around. What you got there? I'm partial to steak and potatoes, but a little fruit and cheese would tie me over and I'm not picky eater. That guy over there didn't even say thanks."

The more John babbled at them, the more fixed their expressions got as they tried not to react. John followed them along the bars towards the gate.

"You know anything about this Final Feast? 'Cause that guy in the green dress said something about a part in the play, but I haven't got my lines yet."

"No lines, Pretty. You won't be talking much while the champion chews your throat out," one of the guards growled, goaded out of the stoic silence.

"Screaming, maybe," quipped one of the others and they all chortled. A shiver went down John's spine, but he kept the reaction off his face.

"But he said it was a contest. You're so sure your champion is going to win?" John put a little edge in his voice, enough to drop the hint - he wouldn't go down easily. The guards just exchanged, smug glances. The one holding the bowl bent to slide it under the gate as he had done on the other side. It was exactly what John had been waiting for.

With a lunge, John reached through the bars, grabbed a handful of the guard's hair, yanked and spun him around. Just as quickly, he threw his arm around the guard's throat.

"Back off or I twist his head off," John snarled. The remaining men stared with wide eyes as their companion gasped and sputtered. John squeezed even tighter. He only had a short time for this gambit to pay off, but John had seen what these people were capable of. He would kill the guard if he had to and made sure his expression conveyed that fact. "The rest of you back off. You! With the fancy belt. You open the gate."

All three moved back, but seemed frozen with indecision. They were neither trained soldiers - which would be bad for John - nor were they cowards. They exchanged nervous looks, but didn't seem inclined to follow John's demands. He closed off more of the guard's air. The man began to sag and clawed futilely at John's arm, leaving scratches.

"I said, OPEN THE DOOR!" John bellowed. One of the guards turned tail and ran across the courtyard as fast as he could. As if the motion had unlocked the others, they also sprang closer and tried to pull John's arm away. One tried to reach through the bars, but the hostage blocked him fairly thoroughly. John could feel the man in his arms growing limp. John began to tremble with the effort.

"Your friend is dying here," he spat. "Open the door and I'll let go. You're killing him. Just. Open. The. Door."

One of the guards fell to his captive's feet and began pleading for John to let him go. The other renewed his efforts to save the man by scraping at John's face and poking at his eyes. John just twisted away. The choking man burbled and his hands dropped limply to his sides. That was too much for the pleading friend.

"I'll do it! Don't kill him. Please, I'll open the gate. Just don't kill Harz. He's my cousin."

Flushed with a moment of victory, John eased up a little on the man who was mostly passed out, but enough that some blood could start to flow.

"Just open the gate," is what he said, as vicious as before.

The cousin fumbled at his pockets for the key while the other man swatted and cursed John with renewed frenzy, screaming at his companion to keep the gate locked. John's heart leaped when the cousin finally tugged out an iron ring and thrust the key towards the lock.

"Wait! They're coming. Help is coming!"

John jerked his gaze towards the courtyard and saw no fewer than ten men running towards them, several carrying long poles and what looked like spears. The man with the key hesitated and John re-tightened his grip.

"He'll be dead before they get here!" John yelled, back to desperate. "I'll let him go right now if you give me that key. Open the damn door!" The footsteps of the approaching men were loud slaps against the marble. "Open it!"

The cousin continued to hesitate long enough for the remaining guard to yank the keys out of his hand. And that's how it ended.

"Crap," John whispered and released the man to fall, unconscious, in a heap against the gate. The crowd of helpers rushed the bars, jabbing their poles and spears at him as the guard knelt to heave his cousin over his shoulders and away from the cage. John stood out of range, sweaty, chest heaving and a little dizzy in the heat. The men cursed him and continued to reach with their poles for a few minutes then turned their backs to him in a circle of conversation.

When they broke the circle and turned back to face him, John's heart began to thrash in his chest worse than when the drugs had been messing with him. They looked smug as hell...and pissed.

"Shit," he whispered when they went for the gate. Four of them put their shoulders together at the door, and another four filed into the cage one by one, each holding one of the poles. The door was open, but there were eight men between John and the courtyard...filled with at least fifty more people, most of whom were watching the drama unfolding at the Pavilion. _Really crappy odds, John, _he thought to himself.

"You, ah...coming in to clean the cage? Cause I could just, you know, wait outside until you're finished."

No one answered, which was scary as hell. They all looked too damn cocky. So, what the hell. He'd try a little cocky himself. Beat dying of thirst in a cage.

He dropped his shoulder and rushed the group. As he'd hoped, they were so surprised that he actually made it past the four who were inside the door. He even managed to knock two down, but by the time he reached the gate, the rest had overcome their shock and were reaching for him. For one, blessed, split second, he was actually outside of the bars, swinging towards the road that lead back to the Stargate as he flung himself around the frame. He might even have made it outside the circle of men waiting at the door, too, if one of them hadn't gotten a clue and shoved his pole at John's feet.

His ankles got caught in a tangle, and he went down. He managed to roll enough to protect his knees, but he grunted at the sting of his palms scraping against the rough marble paving. He kicked the pole away, turned to keep scrambling for the road when another pole landed across his back. His breath exploded from his lungs with a groan and he went flat on his belly, still scrabbling, still trying to crawl his way out. Another whack landed on his shoulders, then another across the back of his legs.

"Damn you!" he yelled as more and more blows fell on him. He finally curled up, twitching and flinching with each strike. "I just wanted a drink of water." He buried his head in his arms.

He didn't notice when they stopped hitting him because the pain kept on. He was pulled to his feet to hang by his arms facing the circle of men, who were leering again, back to smug. One stepped forward, taking ownership of the abuse.

"Argyle wouldn't like to have to find another Pretty so late in the Festival, so you get to live...for another day. But if you try that again, if you so much as look crosswise at a Citizen, we will kill you and display your dead body at Final Feast _without _the contest."

"Go to hell, freak," John whispered. The man's face went purple. He lifted the pole he was carrying and swung it at John's head. John's sight exploded into stars and then he saw nothing at all.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up soaked in sweat, head throbbing and nauseous. For a while, all the discomfort blurred into one massive complaint and he almost sank back into the bliss of the unconscious. Eventually, the aches separated into their own special protests. His head hurt just above his right ear; his right temple was crusty with dried blood that must have trickled across his face as he lay. He tried opening his eyes but had to slam them shut again when the world outside his head started to spin, churning up the bile in his empty stomach. His back was a mass of pain, from his neck down his legs nearly to his knees. It also felt like he was lying on a stove, it was so hot - the kind of hot that burns and makes your hand jerk away.

It was the heat that convinced him to try to open his eyes again. He took several deep breaths and gave it a go.

He was lying against the south wall of bars, his backside baking in the mid afternoon sun. He groaned, and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Managing only a pitiful crawl, he drug himself deeper into the cage, finally finding a line of shadow amid the jumble of boulders. He propped up against a much cooler rock, sighed at the relief from the heat, then winced as leaning pressed into deep bruises.

"That...did not go well," he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his hair as was his habit when feeling self-conscious. "Damn it!" he protested weakly when even that simple gesture scraped against sore skin. The back of his neck from hairline to collar, (and the backs of his arms) were burned and blistered from lying in the sun.

For a long time he just sat, unable to do anything but wait for the pain to fade and keep himself from retching. No one was on the courtyard at all, but John could hear voices and laughter coming from the shaded porches of the surrounding buildings. The sun reflected off the pale marble in shimmery waves of heat.

When he was able to take a personal inventory and sum things up, he wasn't happy with the score. Ugly people 10; John Sheppard 0. He was beat up, caged up, and dehydrated to the point of "really scary". Even after his head stopped throbbing, he felt dizzy. He was finding it hard to think in sentences. His lips were dry and cracked. Hunger he could deal with (although he allowed himself to be grumpy about it). But he'd been out for at least four more hours (by the sun) and the water thing was getting pretty serious. A man could technically "survive" two or three days or longer without water, but "survival" in that sense, i.e. lying around 'til someone picked you up, did not include escape plans and fights to the death with crazy animal-men.

The thought prompted him to check up on his buddy on the other side. The animal man was sleeping again, well within the shade, his back also against a cool boulder. The plate of food and bowl of fruit by its door were clean. Hardly able to muster any true resentment, he glanced at the floor by his own door. He sat up taller. There was something there?

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet, somewhat relieved that he was still able to do so. He walked stiffly to the small bowl that was sitting on the gravel just inside the gate. It was the same bowl the guard was trying to deliver when John had jumped him. He'd forgotten all about it and was surprised it hadn't been spilled in the scuffle. He bent over the bowl, then - almost not daring to believe his luck - he scooped it up and brought it to his lips. It was water! Not much - a quarter liter, maybe, the amount in a soda can - but it sparkled in the hot sun. The bowl was warm to the touch.

John took a gulp of the tepid drink, then choked. What little he hadn't swallowed he spat onto the gravel. The remaining liquid in the bowl sloshed when he slammed the thing on the ground and stalked away to pace beside the gate.

It was drugged. Or _was_ the drug, he wasn't sure. But he was sure that if he drank that stuff, he'd end up just as messed up as he'd been in the parade. He remembered the taste. The heat drove him back from the bars, into the shade, but still he paced. Sure enough, even the single mouthful he'd swallowed began to make him feel tipsy and he had to sit down when his already shaky legs decided to start walking off in different directions. He buried his head in his hands and rubbed absently at the aching goose egg over his right ear.

Score one more for the ugly people. They wanted to see their ugly champion defeat a normal guy. It gave them some kind of perverse sense of recompense to have one of their own defeat one of "them", i.e. _him_. Even the meanest guy would be at a disadvantage in a fight while drugged, starved, and dehydrated.

They were going to make sure their champion won.

* * *

John sat in a black stupor for the rest of the afternoon. He tried not to sleep but ended up dozing for a little bit at a time anyway. The sun beat down on the Pavilion and baked the courtyard with convection oven heat. Each time he jerked back awake, gasping in the oppressively thick air, his mind would go to the bowl. It isn't water, he told himself fiercely. His desperately thirsty body would answer _no, but at least it's...wet_.

It was a relief when the sun began to sink behind the buildings on the West side of the courtyard, but John was already in bad shape. He'd stopped sweating about an hour before the sun went down - a bad sign that put him at high risk for heatstroke - and ironically started to shiver at the same time. His calves were killing him with cramps. And he had another day to go before he was expected to face the champion. At the stage he was at, another hot day like today would kill him _before_ the animal man got a claw on him.

The people attending the festival began to wander back into the courtyard once the shadows stretched from corner to corner. The sunset in the West was quite as beautiful as the sunrise, John noted dully. A bank of fluffy clouds was looming on the horizon and the sun glowed on the edges of each puff and swirl like someone had outlined every detail with a fiery pen. Before the red glow had faded completely, the courtyard was packed with revelers again and the bonfire was stoked to blazing heights. As if to compensate for the heat of the day and their celebration fire, most people were dressed in light wraps of loose fabric, almost sari style for the women, toga style for the men.

As they had last night, groups came by the Pavilion to admire their champion and taunt or throw things at John. Delicious smells drifted on the warm summer breeze from a row of campfires near the market booths and John turned his back when the groups that wandered past carried plates of meats and roasted vegetables piled high. He thought briefly of trying to get someone to throw their food at him - he was certain he could have taunted one or two into enough of a rage to score a scrap or two - but he didn't do it. His friends would come for him or they wouldn't. He would either live or die with his pride intact. The one thing they couldn't withhold from him was his dignity. Several people slipped scraps into the bowl by the animal man's gate.

It wasn't until night had fallen and the party was gearing up around the fire that John realized he was tense and anxious from more than his own desperate situation. Last night's celebration had resulted in the murder of a woman. Tomorrow, he'd been told _he _would be murdered at the hands of the man in the next cage over. He had no reason to believe tonight's entertainment would be any less...uncomfortable. It was the biggest reason why John had resisted the drugged water for so long. When the Pompous Lord of the Festival moved to the center and raised his hands to begin calling for attention, John felt a shudder rattle his teeth.

"Citizens!" the dignitary bellowed and the crowd cheered "Argyle! Argyle!"

"Citizens! Though the sun has set and our festival grounds have cooled, tonight will burn with the heat of our passion!" The crowd cheered again and John twitched. He really didn't like any talk about burning. Not after last night. Argyle was grinning like a fool and waving his hands in time with the swell of the voices. When the noise subsided, he went on. "Last night we demonstrated our power. We soothed the flames of our anger by feeding the flames of retribution. Tonight, we celebrate our needs that burn as fiercely as any Pretty's. We celebrate the hidden beauty of our bodies. Tonight, the fairest of them all take joy in each other as equals in desire!"

The crowd roared and giggled in equal part. (John was completely befuddled by this point)

"Let the dancing begin!"

Music started up as it had last night, but this time the people lined up in great circles for group dancing. A man with a bull's horn began to call out steps and the courtyard swayed with the coordinated movement of hundreds of dancers. John felt himself relax. No burning at the stake or brutal contests. Just dancing. And more beer. The barrel rollers joined the throng, some leaping on top of the casks to perform the steps as the barrels rolled, to the delight of the crowd. It wasn't until the first dance ended with the caller instructing the dancers to kiss their neighbors that John started to get suspicious.

In the second song, there was a lot more kissing, with a lot of partners. When the third song called for the dancers to shed their cloth and he was suddenly faced with the sight of four hundred really ugly naked people dancing around a bonfire, John snapped. He lurched to his feet (fighting through the head rush that threatened to slam him back onto the rock again) and fairly leaped at the bowl of not-water.

"I'd rather be drugged than watch this," he yelled to no one in particular and gulped down the sour-tasting brew. He didn't care. It could have been motor oil and it would have tasted sweet as honey to John. Despite its hours in the sun, it still felt cool on his swollen tongue and was deliciously wet on his lips. Delighted by the act of simply swallowing, he downed the contents in five greedy gulps, then tipped the bowl almost upside down to catch every last drip.

The potion slammed into him almost instantly - like hard alchohol on an empty stomach. He snatched for the bars and dropped the bowl, then pressed his forehead against the cool iron. The swirl of the dancing crowd blurred and melted into a single pretty mass of shadows against an orange/red background. He felt his legs go to jelly and his heart raced with the familiar weird flutter. Groping like a blind man, he felt his way back to his favorite boulder and sank to the floor beside it.

Last night, he'd learned that the less he moved, the less the drug affected him in some kind of inverse-screwage ratio. He'd never be able to fight under the influence - it worked the opposite way too, the more active or excited he was, the more the drug kicked in - but he thought he had a bead on how long it took to wear off. If he was careful and they brought him more, he might even be able to get another swallow of liquid in him and still be out from under its effects in time for the duel tomorrow evening. He hoped. Honestly, what he _hoped _was that he wouldn't even be here tomorrow evening and that the drugs he would be flying on would be of of the type handed out by a certain Carson Beckett. Atlantis still had a day to find him. There was time. There was enough time.

He shivered from the breeze that whipped up out of the southwest, the restless air toying with his messed up internal thermostat. Outside the Pavilion, the revelers danced and laughed and moaned as the party turned into a full blown orgy. John lay down and curled up, not quite able to sleep but pleasantly oblivious to the nonsense around him. His head hurt and his back ached, which didn't seem fair if he had to feel loopy, too.

For a long time he drifted in the drugged stupor, the music and sounds of "merrymaking" sending him to daydreams about (nice!) festivals with Teyla's people. He liked to watch the Athosians celebrate the simple things - food, shelter, life, birth, death. They celebrated everything, from the first planting to the late harvest, and they celebrated often. Feasts and "state visits" to their first allies in the Pegaus galaxy were also times where John could truly feel at ease and free from his command duties for a little while. As much as he loved Atlantis, it wasn't really a "real" home. There were no families, no children. John didn't have those things for himself and he missed being able to watch those who did from the sidelines.

The shouts and laughter of a bunch of kids worked their way into John's half-awake consciousness and he blinked his eyes open, uncertain if the sounds were real or daydreamed. It was full dark above the glowing courtyard and a pack of kids had gathered to play near John's end of the Pavilion, bored with the festivities that included only "adult" activities. Eight or ten boys from around 9 to 11 were kicking around a small bag filled with rice or sand and John would have called the game hacky-sack if he'd been asked to put a word to it. Like the adults, though, each child was marked or scarred or odd looking in some way.

John struggled upright, then made himself get up far enough to sit on top of the boulder so he could watch the kids. There was something so...normal about the way they laughed and joked and played. He could almost forget he was watching from inside a cage. The kids had carried torches over and a ring of light surrounded the group at play. One boy, eight or nine by the height stumbled out of the circle and came to sit on the steps right up against the bars. He was breathing hard and wheezing. Even in the dim light, John could tell that the kid's "disfigurements" were only the most visible symptoms of serious, underlying health issues.

"Hey, you OK buddy?"

The boy jerked at his voice and turned to study John studying him, but he didn't seem frightened. "Yeah! I don't get to play much in my own village. The other kids won't let me. I'm not used to it."

John chewed on his lips, not sure what to say. When the boy just continued to stare John made a stab anyway, "Why won't the other kids let you play?"

John almost grinned at the exaggerated shrug the boy performed for an answer. He was still sounding breathless if unconcerned about it. "They call me 'freak' and 'wraith-face' and stuff like that. My dad says that my heart is weak but I should be proud. I have to fight just to walk down the street. The Pretty kids don't know nothing about fight."

The boy looked John up and down, his eyes wiser than they should be in a boy so young and frail. He was almost daring John to say something.

"I think you're very strong," John said simply. "I felt different from the people I grew up with, too, sometimes."

The boy's eyes went wide, then skeptical. "But you're a pretty!"

"Even so. My dad always wanted me to be a CEO or lawyer or something...er, a shopowner," he explained quickly at the boy's vacant look. "All I ever wanted to do was fly. I wanted to be a soldier. A lot of people I grew up with thought that was an...unworthy job. They made fun of my dreams and told me I should change."

"So, what'd you do?"

"I became a soldier anyway. The best soldier I know how to be."

"What about your dad?"

"He wasn't happy and...we don't see each other any more."

The boy's twisted face softened into understanding. "My uncle brings me here for festival - he's a citizen, too. The other kids don't call me names and they let me play. I wish I didn't have to see the pretties anymore. I wish I could stay here forever and leave them behind like you left the mean people."

John pulled a face, not sure the conversation was going where he'd hoped it would. He thought for a minute (which was something of an effort) and shored up his courage. He realized he was about to tell this sickly boy, who's name he didn't even know, something he hadn't told anyone in the last ten years. Not even the friends who'd become as close as family in the last two of those.

"I left my father behind because he wouldn't accept me, but...sometimes it makes me really sad. I wish-. Well, sometimes I want to go back and keep trying. Sometimes I don't fit in with my new friends either, and they make fun of people like I grew up with without even knowing that's where I came from."

"So you don't have nowhere you can play without being sad?"

"No! What I mean is that life's just complicated. You can't depend on other people to tell you what you should be or WHO you should be. Your dad's a smart guy. You should be proud of who you are. And..." John took a deep breath, driving his point home..."and you don't have to hate the people who don't understand you, yet. What the grownups around here are doing...all the hate and the killing and hurting people," John pointed to the blood on his temple and the scratches on his cheek, "won't _give_ you pride if you don't have it in yourself."

The boy nodded as if thinking about it.

"You don't talk like a pretty."

"I'm probably not very pretty right now." John scratched at his itchy chin, scraggly from more than two days without a shave. "I'm just a guy, like your dad and your uncle. I don't want to be in here. I want to be with my friends, too. I want to go home."

The boy was starting to look uncomfortable and began shooting looks at the other kids, as if suddenly afraid someone would catch him talking to John. "You get to fight the champion," he said, low and soft and John could hear the doubt creeping into the spin his elders had obviously put on things.

"I don't want to fight the champion. I don't want to die." John said quickly, firmly, but as gently as he could muster. Even so, the boy was getting visibly distressed.

"You could... maybe you could win."

John just shook his head. "The grownups are cheating. They won't give me food. They won't give me clean water. They put...bad things in the water they did give me. Bad stuff that makes me sick and weak. I can't win because they're being mean to me. It's not a fair fight and I want to go home."

The boy's eyes were wide with the dilemma John was presenting him. John felt a little bad about it. He had heard the boy's anguish over being taunted and teased, but these people were going about repairing their self-image the wrong way. John desperately needed an ally, and the kid was the only chance he'd had so far. At the bitter end, John knew he was capable of using a kid like this one as he'd used the guard. He knew he was capable of hurting him if doing so gave him a chance to live. But...he wasn't there yet. He still had a day.

"I could use some clean water, at least," he sighed softly as the kid remained frozen to his step and John felt the drug catching up to him. He shuddered at another gust of wind and looked into the sky beyond the courtyard just as a flash of lightning spread across the southwestern horizon. A black mass of emptiness blotted out nearly half the stars, and another flash outlined the thunderheads in an eerie glow. The clap of thunder from the first flash finally boomed over the courtyard, startling John and (from the hoots of the kids) everyone else, too. The involuntary surge of adrenaline at the jolt kicked the drug into high gear and John groaned, sliding off the rock to curl up on the floor while his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest in painful, frantic leaps.

"You OK?" a small voice called his way. John didn't have the breath to answer, which pretty much _gave _the answer.

"Merk! Get away from there! The Pretty will eat you up if he gets his hands on you!"

"He will not," John heard his little friend, Merk, reply with an indignant retort.

"Yes he will," demanded the older voice, a cousin or ringleader. "That guard named Harz still can't swallow good from what the Pretty did to him."

John sighed as Merk's footsteps pattered away from the Pavilion. So much for that ally. Another boom startled him, and he cursed the thunder and the drugs and human tendency to cruelty. Over the next half hour, the booms and flashes grew steadily louder and brighter as the storm tracked towards the festival. When sprinkles of rain began falling on the courtyard, the partygoers grumbled their disapproval and began to move as a group back to the porches.

John watched them wander unhurriedly towards shelter and then scrabbled to his feet with a sudden hope. He managed to stagger over to where he'd dropped the bowl and picked it up. Then he leaned against the bars, watching the constantly flashing sky. Drops turned into a steady sprinkle, which turned into a downpour. Raindrops the size of bullets slapped the marble and bounced back with knee high splashes. When the roof over the Pavilion was pouring a steady stream of dripwater waterfalls, John reached his arm as far through the bars as he could stretch and held the bowl towards the closest downspout. The mist and humidity on his face as the water splashed felt like pure heaven, but even though he licked his lips, he couldn't catch enough for a mouthful.

Grunting, he stretched as far as he could, then spat a curse and shuffled to another spot where the waterfalls looked closer. He heard shouts and raucous laughter from somewhere, but he was too focused - _be honest, John_, _the word is desperate_ - on the water that was so damnibly close!

"Crap!" The roof extended over the bars and the steps just a foot or so too far for John's bowl to reach. A few splashes gathered in the bottom, and John licked the drops while he scurried to try at yet another place.

"Damn it!" He cried, still unable to reach. It was torture, the water was so close. He was so damn thirsty. He sank to his knees, fighting the drug and true despair, still holding the bowl uselessly towards the water that refused to splash into it. Above, the sky grumbled and flashed. He added his own howl of frustration to the noise. How could he be so damp and cold and so thirsty at the same time?

"Boys! Get your idiot butts out of the rain! You got no more sense than a blind goat!"

The bellow came from the East end of the cage, in the direction the boys had been playing. The water had drenched all the torches, but in the constant flashing of the lightning-sheeted sky, John could see the boys still playing, some with their ball, some just dancing in the rain. A larger, crooked figure was waving at the boys who seemed reluctant to give up their free play.

The wind whipped from the South and John reached for the rainwater again, unhopeful, the gesture more defiant than sanguine. When the bowl was pulled out of his hand, John gasped and reached blindly for whoever had taken it. A particularly bright flash illuminated a small, too-thin shadow, holding the bowl under a waterfall. Hardly daring to hope, not allowing himself to believe it, John pressed against the bars and just watched, waiting.

When the bowl began to slop over, the shadow stepped closer, holding both sides carefully so as not to spill. The boy was soaked like a rat. His fine brown hair was plastered to his forehead and cheeks and he was grinning from ear to ear. He held the bowl out to John who took it and - desperate for a drink - tipped it to his lips for a long draw before finding his voice.

"Thank you," he gasped finally. "Thank you, Merk." The kid took the bowl away to refill it, then turned towards the courtyard after handing it again to John.

"I told Jaks that you wouldn't eat me," he said, his voice smug.

"No. I don't want to fight," John replied before the boy could skitter away.

"Merk!" the larger shadow in the courtyard bellowed again, "Confound it, your dad will have my head if I lose you. Get your tail to the porch, now, boy!"

"Coming, Uncle!" Merk called and scampered away.

John drank until his belly felt bloated and he was shivering from the cold water sloshing around inside him. He left the bowl as close to the dripwater as he could reach, hoping to catch a few drops for later. When a deep shudder rattled his teeth he retreated further from the damp breeze and curled up beside the boulder. He tried to think rationally about his luck - the bowl wasn't very big; he'd probably gotten a little less than a liter in him. And that spread over two days of heat and normal body function was still way under par. But at that moment, he felt more satisfied and more hopeful than he had in hours.

There was still time. He knew that Teyla and Ronon and Rodney were looking for him. It probably wasn't going to be as hot tomorrow as it had been today and... he'd made a friend.

A crash drew his attention briefly to the wire between the cages. The animal man was pacing and hissing at the lightning. When a clap of thunder rattled the roof, it howled and lunged at the wire again, insane and angry with its fear. John tried to work up a little sympathy for the thing - it was in a cage, and frightened, too. But his belly chose right then to growl with a great gurgle of annoyance. Apparently, his stomach had been hoping for some food to go with the water and in some ways, John felt even hungrier than before. He remembered the scraps of food lying in the other man's bowl and every last shred of sympathy vanished.

The man howled again, slammed his shoulder against the wire and then glared at John with a furious "Ssssssssssssssssssssskkk".

"Oh...shut up," John told it and curled tighter into a ball. When the storm passed and a bright steamy dawn broke over the courtyard, John was sound asleep.

* * *

He dreamed of Atlantis. At first, he was racing through gleaming golden hallways while the city's engines rumbled and throbbed under his feet. It was going to fly and John was going to fly it. If he could get to the chair. But no matter how far or hard he ran, no matter how many turns he made, he never quite got to the chair room. It was always around one last turn, down one last corner and the faster he ran, the slower he seemed to go.

Eventually that dream shifted and he was walking through a jungle with his team. It was muggy and sweltering hot. Rodney kept saying "Power readings! Power readings!" and Ronon and Teyla dragged their feet, looking sweaty and tired. He was team leader, he had to keep them going, so he kept saying "Not far, then we'll stop for a drink." And then they'd keep walking, getting hotter and sweatier and never closer to wherever it was they were going. Just when John was feeling woozy from the heat, Ronon drew his gun and pushed his chest into John's and snarled, "Wake up, Pretty!"

John startled, then blinked in the bright morning sunshine. The first thing he looked for was the sun. It was already high over the buildings on the East side, hot and golden behind the tail end of the stormclouds that left great puffy shadows on the courtyard's marble. He'd slept late. It was already sweltering and more humid than yesterday. So he'd been wrong about the being hot thing.

He shoved himself up to slouch against the boulder. He felt dizzy and nauseous, but his heart wasn't racing, so he was pretty much out from under the drugs. At least that part had worked out.

"Hey! You! No sleeping during Final Feast! You're the main attraction!"

John jerked his head towards the voice, his heart leaping from fear even without the drug. The same guard who'd knocked him out yesterday was standing at the gate, smacking his stick against the bars.

"Final..." he whispered. _Not yet! I'm not...they're not here!_

"You awake? Come on, there, show some life. The citizens need you awake to heap their curses. There's a boy," the guard mocked when John pushed himself shakily to sit on top of his boulder.

"When..." John cleared his throat, tried to work up some spit for talking, "When is the contest?"

"Evening. When the sun touches the Western roofs. We should be ready by then." The guard laughed raucously and John followed his gesture.

In the middle of the courtyard, another pole was going up.


	4. Chapter 4

_They'll get here. They'll get me out. They'll find me. _John chanted the words as the day unfolded around him.

He was still thirsty. He could tell that the water he'd had in the night had helped. That single bottle-worth of liquid had staved off lethal dehydration for a little while longer, and because of it, he had a chance to make it through the day - if only barely. They'd found his bowl and put it back in the cage with another dose of the drug. He'd poured it out, then made a show of "pretending" to drink it, stumbling around afterwards for effect. Sadly, the stumbling part wasn't entirely faked. _They'll get here._

He was hot. The sun burned off the last of the storm clouds and left the courtyard literally steaming. Wisps of fog hovered over the puddles in eerie mini-marshes until one of the children came along and splashed in them. The humidity made it feel even hotter than it probably was. His by-now disgusting t-shirt clung to his chest, damp from the air and what little sweat his body was able to give up. He stayed back behind the jumble of boulders, away from the south wall of bars to stay cool and to stay away from the people that were filing by. _They'll find me._

He was...scared. The sun marched across its arc, closer and closer to the western boundary that marked his last chance. The pompous Argyle had held a morning ceremony blessing the Final Feast, (which was apparently an all day affair) and, again, condemned John to the Champion at "sunset". After that, every "citizen" worked their way past his cage at some point during the day to murmur a curse, share a perceived injustice against them. Then every one would spit in his direction and file away again, most putting a token offering of food or sweets in the champion's cage.

"Maybe he'll get too full to fight," John muttered after watching the animal man scuttle to his bowl to wolf a delicious looking bit of bar-b-que. It was a specious hope - the animal man looked more manic and agitated than ever, probably as spooked by the crowds approaching the cage as John was. _God, he really had to get out of here!_

For the most part, John ignored the people and their curses. A guard with a long spear had been posted beside the bars to keep John from grabbing for anyone and John was happy to comply. He refused to acknowledge them or give them the pleasure of seeing him react in any way. He only broke the rule twice - once when Harz the guard came by, his cousin at his side. Instead of the usual ritual, Harz just stared at John, looking conflicted.

"Kerz said you could have killed me, but...you let go. Why?" the man demanded of John, surprising the guard on duty.

John shrugged. "Killing you wouldn't have helped me any." He put no remorse or altruism in his tone. He'd let go, because killing the man wouldn't have changed the outcome in that scenario. It was a simple fact. John could kill when he needed to. He wouldn't when there was no tactical advantage for doing so.

The man, Harz, nodded, still perplexed. He didn't spit, John noticed. Neither did the cousin.

The second time he spoke to a citizen was when a large burly man strolled by carrying a long thin boy. It was his friend, Merk. The kid was sprawled against his Uncle, his face buried in the hairy man's neck and his thin arms draped around the man's shoulders.

"Hey, kid! Hey, is the kid OK?" John left the shadow to step closer, waving to catch the Uncle's attention. The uncle scowled at John's interest. When he answered, it was probably for the guard's benefit who was also looking concerned and sympathetic.

"His heart is acting up. Played too hard in the damn rain last night. He's been droopy all day. Didn't even want to come out for the blessing. Says he doesn't want to watch the contest."

John bit his lip, feeling a sting in his eyes that he didn't have the water to relieve.

"He'll perk up once the excitement and the bonfires get going," the guard reassured. Merk lifted his head just enough to catch John's eye, then buried his face into his uncle's shoulder with a small murmur.

"What did he say?" asked the guard, patting the lethargic boy on his back.

"Uh, something about 'the pretty won't eat him'. He's been muttering that all day."

The uncle spoke his curse and spat at John, tried halfheartedly to get Merk to say something, then wandered away towards the porches. John retreated and leaned against the back wall, burying his own face in the cold concrete. He still had his ally, but what a sickly little boy could do for him was beyond his imagination. He'd only made the boy miserable. He felt kind of sick himself.

When the sun reached two fists above the roof, John began to pace, his mind racing and his heart pounding. People were still filing by, but most were looking dressed up, ready for the evening. Not as "prom night" as the first night, but John could tell they'd pulled out their nicest clothes. The cooking fires and booths had been going all day and an amazing smell of meat, bread, and baked sweets drifted past on every breeze. John had been thirsty for so long, he didn't notice his dry mouth and swollen tongue anymore. At least until a great plume of smoke billowed from the booths and saturated the courtyard in the scent of smoked brisket. His mouth watered so fiercely he had to slurp down the spit or risk drooling. His stomach growled so angrily that he hunched over with the rumble.

A horn blew, loud and clear, and John shivered. The excitement in the courtyard amped up a notch or two and John's terror ramped with it. Even the animal man felt the charge and crashed into the wire a few times, his single clear eye locked on John, his teeth bared. John pressed himself against the back corner gulping air. When the people on the courtyard cheered and began moving towards the booths, he was still only able to relax a little. They were going to eat, he realized as the crowds remained by the billowing smoke. But the contest would follow. The sun was a blinding orb over the roofs, centered with some cruel poetry over the tallest and most stately of the buildings.

John had tried to develop a strategy against the animal man, should he have to fight. He'd scoured every inch of his cage for a loose stick or rock that he could use as a weapon. He'd found only gravel and the bowl. He'd forced himself to prepare hand-to-hand scenarios, but every fight ended in his mind the same way he feared they'd end in real life: He was weak and already damaged. The animal man was fed, rested and...scary. Forcing optimism, he ran through the positives he'd been able to dredge out of his situation. 1, The animal man was blind in one eye giving John a slight advantage, there. 2, He'd avoided the drugs. He was dizzy, shivery and wobbly, but not drugged. 3...surely there had been a three?

He couldn't concentrate. He thought he might be able to muster a burst of strength when it came down to it, but not for long. His only chance was a fast, startling victory in the first minutes of the fight. IF he had to fight. __

Damn it! Where are you?

He stared into the sun, mesmerized. He found himself thinking back to a day last week when he'd ended up on the command balcony at sunset with Elizabeth, Teyla, Rodney and Zelenka. There'd been some excuse to be together, but they weren't talking. They'd just watched the sun sink into the waves and the sky explode into color. He remembered thinking about how fast the planet was rotating and how slow the sun seemed to move. He and Rodney had argued about the JPH* he'd need to fly for a jumper to "pace" the sun and - like the Little Prince - witness perpetual sunset. The moment of quiet companionship, friendship, had lasted forever. (_JPH = the goofy unit of speed the ancients used. The ancients were terrible at naming things._)

Tonight, the globe seemed to fall out of the sky like a rock. When the last edge dipped behind the building a heavy, cold lump of resolution settled into his guts. They hadn't come. It was too late. It would be over soon...one way or another. The tall pole and its surrounding heaps of logs and kindling loomed over the center of the courtyard, mocking him. Fear slid away - it had no use. He sat down on his boulder to conserve what energy he did have. The crowd was taking its time, still laughing and talking over the food at the other end. It was really annoying, actually. If he was going to die, he'd rather just get on with it.

He sort of took back the thought when another horn blew and the crowd started to move towards the cage in a large happy group. And he couldn't _entirely_ squash the fear. His hands started to shake. He scoured his eyes over the cage again as if a pile of weapons might appear out of thin air. His eyes fell on the bowl again, and an idea flashed through his brain. He scrambled to snatch it up and looked more closely - it was simple carved wood, a solid piece and fairly thick. The edges were smooth. He tried holding the bowl over a fist, but couldn't get a good grip. He needed something to grip it with. He looked around, then down at himself. He smiled.

Ducking behind the biggest boulder, he stripped off his soggy black shirt and wrapped it around the bowl, stretching and tying the fabric until the bowl began to resemble a black jellyfish with a knot and dangle of fabric coming out of the open end. He picked it up by the knot and gave it an experimental swing. Crappy balance, but might give him a little leverage for a harder whack or two. He put the bowl just out of sight of the south bars and stood up again to loosen his canvas belt. He left it in the loops and tied together in the front so it wouldn't dangle, but it was unbuckled and loose for quick retrieval.

The murmur of the crowd was growing louder and the throng was spreading right around the cage itself, four or five rows deep from the bottom step. John allowed himself a little relief - he'd wondered if they'd be moved somewhere else, in which case they certainly wouldn't let him take his homemade weapon and might possibly try to drug him again. He did wonder how he was going to get into the animal man's cage or vice versa. He stood at the very back, a warm summer evening breeze raising goosebumps.

A couple of the women in the crowd noticed his bare chest and began to giggle and point and blow mock kisses his way. John blushed, half with embarassment half with fury. He wasn't exactly shy, but the mocking attention was just wrong. He felt exposed and...used. He turned his back on the women who were against the east side of his cage and heard them gasp as they were confronted with the massive striping of bruises on his back.

_Use it, John, _a small voice inside his head told him,_ use the anger. Get these bastards back._ But another part of him quietly noticed that that's exactly what these people were doing - they were getting back at the "pretties" who made their lives miserable every day. He shook the argument aside. This was survival. Conscience was for...later.

"Citizens!" bellowed Argyle.

_Here we go_, John thought. His hands were fists against his side and he kept blinking, hoping his eyes would clear. The crowd cheered. Of course.

"We have feasted together and we have heaped our curses upon the Pretty. When our champion sends him to the ancestors, our curses will go with him, freeing us from the misery of their burden." _Lovely symbolism, _John snarled to himself. Argyle went on. "We are particularly blessed this festival. The Pretty who will carry our curses is a soldier, a man of power. Our victory will be all the sweeter as we prove that not even a man of such beauty, strength and resources can deny us our glory when we choose to reach for it."

_Ok, that really stings!_ John blushed again, this time out of shame. _Some man of strength, tricked by a little girl! _"Even soldiers are human," he called, unable to stay silent. "I'm just a guy. I try to be a nice guy. I don't want to die. And I'm not planning to." _There, that sounded pretty confident! And don't call me beautiful._

"SILENCE!" Roared the Lord of the Festival and the crowed booed until John rolled his eyes. It had been clear from the beginning that these people would not be talked down.

"We will not be denied!" Argyle screamed, working the crowd up into a froth. "Tonight, we witness TRIUMPH!"

"Not your best speech of the festival, old guy," John muttered, charged by the frenetic atmosphere. He kept his eyes on everyone, his battle-trained observation skills taking in any motion that might have direct impact. _Fast and sudden_, he kept repeating to himself. He wouldn't last in a struggle. He had to take the animal man out in the first two minutes. He was already starting to shake from stress and the low resources his body had to call upon. The animal man was just as agitated, but looked a little more eager than John. It was pacing the fenceline, glaring and "sssk"ing.

Four guards approached the front of the Pavilion and hooked ropes through the end of the wire wall that extended slightly beyond the native iron bars. Two had metal clippers that they used to quickly snip away the several strands that had been used to attach the temporary fence to the bars. John heard scratching on the solid wooden wall at the back of the pavilion and saw the screws that held down that end of the fence loosen and fall out. When the animal man crashed into the fence, wild with excitement, John couldn't keep himself from skittering to the far side of his half. The now loose fence bent and wobbled, startling the thing. It scuttled away, hissing.

"Let the contest begin!" Argyle bellowed over the cheering.

"Heave on three, men!" called the guard in charge. All four grabbed the ropes, waved the crowd out of their way and braced their feet. "One, two...three!"

The guards pulled on the ropes and the wire slid out of the pavilion like a sliding door on a patio. The noise of the audience drowned out the screaming scraping of metal against iron and gravel. The fence hooked and swayed a couple of times, but the four strong guards heaved with relentless strength and bent or otherwise bullied the thing out of the pavilion, leaving one large, open cage. John was aware of all of that, but the contest started before the gap had reached five feet wide.

With a clicking hiss of pleasure, the animal man scampered through the opening into John's side, then paused, hands splayed, hissing and twisting its head around like it had entered a completely new room. _Territorial,_ John thought. It really is acting like an animal defending and expanding its territory. The moment of inventory was brief. The man zeroed in on John and lunged, pure aggression, pure instinct. John let it close to about two meters, then dashed down the length of the south bars when it was hopping over the rocks. Unable to change direction as quickly on the unstable footing, the man was forced to rebalance before turning in pursuit.

John cut from front to back, staying far enough ahead of the creature to keep it from closing. The crowd screamed and booed, crying out for contact and bloodshed. That would come soon enough, but for now, John was testing the thing's abilities. And he wasn't liking what he saw. It was wiry, lithe and quick as a cat. John spent another moment playing the role of the mouse, deliberately sticking to its blind side, and saw the opening he'd been hoping for, as small as it was: The creature turned its head constantly to make up for the loss of stereo vision, but it kept its left hand out to help it feel its way as it leaped and chased John around the cage.

John worked his way back to his side where he'd left the bowl. The man pursued, more slowly now, having figure out that John was just dancing. It was clearly thinking about trying a different approach. For a moment, they faced each other from opposite sides of what had been John's cage, the 'weapon' between them.

"What's the matter, friend? Can't catch me? Too full of barbecue?" John taunted, hating how breathless he sounded. He still wasn't sure the man understood. It hissed a challenge in reply. "I'm not going to just lie down and die for you, so if you want me, come and get me!"

John watched carefully, then moved at the same moment the creature did. Almost as if choreographed, they lunged towards each other, the animal man's fingers outstretched, John's shoulder lowered. He had one chance. One brief moment when momentum and strategy were on John's side. If he screwed it up, it would come down to strength...and John would lose. The crowd screamed its approval, cheering and chanting

At the last possible second, John ducked to the right - the man's blind side. He felt the claws rake down his shoulder as the thing tried to grab onto him, but John threw one arm over its "balance" arm, twisted it behind its back, jammed a foot into the thing's ankles (hey, it had worked on him, hadn't it?) and fell with it as it toppled onto the gravel. The bowl was two feet away and John snatched for the fabric knot, swung, and brought the solid wooden end down hard on the back of the creature's head. Ronon and Teyla would be so proud!

Its face dug into the gravel and it went limp except for slow twitches and a constant, "Skkkk, skkk, sssssk..."

John pressed his knee into the thing's back, stripped off his belt, wrapped the loop around one wrist and tied the other to it tightly behind its back. And then he was done.

He tried to stand up again, but his head went spinning and he managed only to scrabble a few feet away from the defeated champion. He leaned against a boulder and rolled his head back against it, panting in great heaving gasps. He was trembling from head to toe, and he felt weak like he'd never felt before...like he couldn't even raise his arms again if he needed to. Outside the cage there was utter, absolute silence. John cracked open his eyes to see four hundred pale and stunned faces staring at him.

_Oh, wow_, he thought. _What happens next?_ Every ounce of his concentration had been focused on making it through that moment. The future beyond the contest had seemed so opaque, he had never even thought to consider what would come after if he won. He...hadn't really expected to win.

"All right!" John heard a small, happy voice cry into the silence. John smiled a weary smile. His friend had been rooting for him. The tiny voice was immediately drowned out by angry murmurs that quickly became shouts and screams of fury. People rushed the bars to shake their fists and yell and curse at him. He was too weary to even flinch. The shaking was getting worse, and his legs were cramping up again. There was a strange black border around everything, it felt like he was looking down a tunnel. He suddenly noticed his parched, dry throat and something else...he was hot. Fever hot. He closed his eyes for a second. It was getting harder and harder to think.

He was vaguely aware of Argyle and the guards huddled together, also shouting and gesturing. He felt a rush of fear when, for a second, he couldn't remember why he was on the ground and why people were yelling at him. He sagged further against the boulder. He was sick, he thought dully. Something was wrong. He was really thirsty. Maybe he could ask someone for a drink.

Half a dozen guards shoved their way through the angry mob towards the gate. Two had to stay by the door to keep the crowd from rushing in, too, and the remaining four marched towards him, their expressions grim. John revived a little when they grabbed for his arms and yanked him to his feet. The headrush from being pulled upright brought panic and he struggled blindly, his vision blacked out by the low blood pressure. The guards wrestled for a moment, then one of them cursed and jammed his knee into John's chest.

His breath burst out of his throat and he gasped, unable to take another in. Emboldened, another guard swung at his face for good measure. When he could finally draw air again, he felt hot liquid streaming out of his nose, choking him and causing him to splutter. The blood tasted salty on his lips. Limp again, John felt his arms pulled over two of the guards' shoulders and he was dragged, feet trailing behind him, out of the cage and into the midst of the throng.

John had witnessed mobs before, usually as an enforcer holding the line against it. But this was...terrifying. He was jostled and shoved against the guards who had to draw close just to keep him from being yanked out of their grasp. Hands reached towards his bare torso and scraped or slapped at him. It was hot and loud and sweaty and John's head began to spin even faster with claustrophobic nausea. The guards weren't happy either. After one large citizen whacked the front guard with a stick trying to reach for John, John saw a terrifying look pass among his escort. They weren't going to take any more for him. They were on the verge of just tossing him to the crowd where he would no doubt be trampled or torn to bits.

"Don't! Don't!" he gasped, pleading with them. He didn't know where he was going, but surely it was better than death by mob.

The supper horn rang out over the courtyard, shrill and clear and the jostling subdued. The horn blew four more times until the crowd calmed down to more or less a dull roar and the guards could move forward again. Someone began bellowing through the bullhorn that had been used for the dance steps and the crowd pulled further away, opening a path. John recognized the pompous tones of Argyle, but couldn't catch any words. The black tunnel had squeezed out all but a flashlight splash of his vision and dulled his hearing.

Argyle continued to soothe, and the guards hurried across the courtyard, John dragging along between them. A flirtatious breeze ruffled his hair. He lifted his head, (after realizing it had been drooping against his chest) took in the scene before him...and balked. Pure panic took over. He planted his feet, shoved backwards and let his arms go completely limp - (a tactic he'd learned from an Athosian toddler, once). He slipped out of the guards' grasp and ended up on his butt. Before they could get another good grip, John flipped over and tried to crawl through the legs around him, bracing for the lunge it would take to heave himself to his feet.

He got as far as drawing his toes under him before the most fed up guard simply hauled off and kicked him. John felt a crack as the heavy boot sank into his ribcage. He was thrown sideways, skinning his elbow against the rough pavement. He curled up, expecting - hoping almost - to be pummeled into jelly on the spot. When he went limp, though, the kicking stopped and he was - again - hauled upright. Again, he was relentlessly pulled forward. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to keep the spinning, frightening world out.

When the march stopped, he felt thick ropes being tied around his wrists in front of him. The gasps of air he sucked down tasted bitter, what little he could force through his bloody nose smelled of kerosene and oil. He opened his eyes and saw the pile of kindling stacked in front of him, higher than his head. The rope that tied his hands together ran up to loop through a ring at the top of the wooden pole and back down again. A moan of fear escaped his throat and he leaned away from the stake only to be pushed closer.

Argyle himself loomed into the small circle of vision that remained to John.

"You lose, pretty," the Lord of the Festival snarled, his voice low and menacing...personal. John met the man's eyes, sunken in the disfigured face. From somewhere in the crowd a little boy was crying, "He won! He didn't eat me! You can't, he won!" To John's right, two guards were watching, solemn and still, disapproval written in their posture and expressions. He glanced at them briefly, then lifted his chin.

"I win," John whispered.

Argyle cursed, his face so twisted in fury that for a moment, John wasn't sure if he was going to scream or punch. In the end, Argyle stepped back, fists clenched and jaw locked.

"Heave it aloft," he bellowed and flung his arm at the men who were holding the other end of the dangling rope. The men pulled and John's arms were yanked over his head and he was slammed into the pile of kindling.

_I win, _he thought, and then the agony of being scraped across the pile of logs overwhelmed him at last, and he fell, willingly, into the black tunnel.


	5. Chapter 5

"I've got his transponder!"

Teyla closed her eyes, sharing in the relief that also saturated Rodney's voice. The hum of the jumper's engines whined louder as they leaped out of the stargate, surrounding her with its comforting power, a power that could now, finally, be put to advantage. In the seat next to her, she heard Ronon's soft grunt of approval.

She'd lost track of how many worlds they'd searched in the last two days, each one met with radio silence and absent the hopeful beacon of John's signal. Rodney was sitting in the co-pilot chair, his fingers flying over the control panel. A grid of the terrain below appeared on the HUD, situated neatly around a glowing green dot. "He's a klik from the gate. Follow that main street, due north."

"Got it," the young lieutenant piloting the jumper replied, and swung the craft above the roofs of the stately buildings of this world's abandoned (usually abandoned) city.

"There's also about four hundred people down there, too," Rodney added as the HUD display filled out with detail.

"Where is Sheppard?" Ronon snapped and for once, Rodney didn't pick on the Satedan's semantics and just answered the question he knew was being asked.

"He's smack in the middle of them. Of course. If he's being held captive for 'entertainment', as our sources suggest, then he's managed to make himself the main attraction."

Teyla shuddered. The rumors and whispers they'd heard in the last two days as they pieced together the tale of John's kidnapping had sounded too horrible to get her mind around. That John was in danger had been the only certainty she'd been able to grasp. She leaned forward for a better look through the jumper's window, preferring the interpretation of her own eyes over the HUD. Roofs and paved streets flashed by below. The sun had set, but still cast enough of a glow in the western sky to illuminate the shapes of individual buildings and overgrown gardens.

The lieutenant spoke into the radio and crisply ordered ground troops to begin making their way to John's coordinates. Ronon grunted again in agreement. The squad of six marines in the back of the jumper were heavily armed and prepared to extract their CO at any cost, but ten against 400 was...optimistic. (Nine if you counted Rodney)

Rodney pointed to the HUD. Teyla tensed, feeling anxiety quicken her pulse. John's dot was nearing the center of the screen. "There. He's there. In a big open area. Can you see him?"

The jumper coasted over the final roofs and over a large square courtyard boxed on each side by more of the beautiful buildings. In the middle of the space, a large crowd was clustered around a tall pole of some sort. The lieutenant slowed the jumper and glided towards the throng. It was hard to make out individuals in the group, the courtyard was completely in shadow, and the only torches that had been lit were scattered randomly through the crowd. Most people were standing still, but one torch seemed to be moving towards the center, pushing its way through the closely packed people.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no!"

"What!" Teyla snapped, alarmed by the panic in Rodney's tone.

"It's a stake, they're tying him to a stake. You've got to stop them! We've got to get down there!"

"Marines!" The lieutenant barked, even as he shoved the controls forward and shot the jumper towards the pole. "I'm going to get as close to the target as possible and open the hatch. I want you out the door the second we touchdown. Secure the Colonel and watch for firebugs."

A chorus of replies and a scuffling of men readying their gear drifted from the rear, but Teyla's eyes were locked on the ground below. A few people had finally noticed the jumper bearing down on them and had started to point. The lieutenant brought the craft down to within a few meters of the tops of their heads and then cruised the entire circle of onlookers, circling and inching lower until they began to wave their arms in fright and scatter. A single drone zipped away from the extended drive pods and arced away to smash into an unpopulated building on the north side of the courtyard with what would sound like an ominous boom on the ground.

"That'll give them something to think about," he muttered, sounding vindictive.

All the time, Teyla was searching for John. When she finally puzzled out the scene, she gasped in horror. A pale limp figure was sprawled on top of the pile of firewood by the bottom of the pole. As the jumper circled closer, she saw the rope stretching John's arms towards the pole, being held by two gaping men at the other end. John wasn't dangling, yet, but the intent was clear. They had interrupted these people in the act of hanging John over the bonfire. Had they been even minutes later...!

When enough people were moving in the right direction, the pilot brought the jumper to hover directly next to the pole and inched it relentlessly down towards the ground. Those who hadn't decided to run, yet, got the hint and the pavement cleared with startling speed. The pilot popped the hatch even before they'd touched down.

Teyla leaped out of her seat and was out the back on the heels of the sixth marine, her own P-90 at the ready. The squad shoved its way through the last of the stunned people by the pile of wood, shouting and shoving them away. The humid evening air was thick with the stench of lantern oil.

"Ronon! The wood is soaked in kerosene. Any spark will ignite the entire pile," she called. Ronon snarled in answer.

"You!" he bellowed, aiming his blaster at the men with the rope. "Let go. Let him down." The men did so to skitter back into the edges of the crowd that was hovering at a safe distance from the jumper. Teyla watched John's arms flop onto his bare stomach, still tied together, still lying across the top of the pile. It was tall, over her head and looked precarious, obviously not meant to be structural.

"We have to get him down," she cried, hearing the anguish in her voice. He was so limp. So...lifeless.

The marines formed a tight circle around the pile, weapons bristling outwards, their eyes scanning the crowd for motion, missing nothing. The onlookers that remained nearby were murmuring, huddled together.

"Think it'll hold if I climb up there?" Ronon asked. He and Rodney joined her in her focus on John. Rodney was scanning as they talked and began walking around the pile. She was shaking her head when they were distracted by a bellow.

"You don't belong here!"

Teyla whirled to see two Marines step together and lower their weapons at the chest of a tall, supremely ugly man with a black beard. He was holding a torch and glaring at all of them. There were a few men dressed in uniforms, guards probably, standing around him which told Teyla he was someone of importance to these people.

"Did you do this?" Ronon snarled and pointed his own weapon towards the man who'd spoken so...unwisely. "Did you hang my friend up there like a _stangustia_!" He spat the words with such venom that Teyla put a hand on his arm to restrain him even though her own fury was no less potent.

"How dare you interrupt our festival!"

Apparently, wisdom was not among this man's gifts! Teyla thrust her fist at the man. "How dare _you_! Have we not enough enemies to resist preying on one another? Have we all not enough hardships to endure that you must conjure up more to wallow in?"

"You know _nothing_ of hardship," the man sneered, looking her up and down with an expression that made her skin crawl. There was no answer. Were he of her people, Teyla would show him her displeasure with her sticks. Here...there was work to be done. She turned her back on the buffoon and stepped back to Rodney who'd finished his walk around the pile and was slapping at his scanner in that way that meant he was unhappy with what it was displaying.

"Damn you, pretties!"

The sharp cry spun her around in time to see the angry leader raising his torch, preparing to throw it towards the oil soaked kindling. She had only sucked in a breath for a cry of her own before a series of three quick pops shattered the muggy night. The black-bearded man shuddered, stumbled backwards and crumpled. The three marines who'd fired never even so much as paused in their continual sweeping of the crowd, reinforcing their message with deadly calm: you move, you die. The crowd cried out in fear and random shouts of dismay. A few more ran away towards the buildings, the rest pressed together, even further away from the bonfire to murmur in a frightened huddle.

Teyla sighed, overwhelmed and desperate to get to John...and get out of there.

"It's just a big pile of logs," Rodney told her once she returned her attention to him. "We dislodge any that are load-bearing and the pile will shift."

"What about the ropes. Can we use those to swing him down?"

"We could lift him off the pile, yes, but we'd have the same problem climbing up far enough to catch him when we let it down again."

"What about the jumper. Can it hover close enough to reach him?"

Rodney looked nervously over at the lieutenant who'd joined Ronon in circling and inspecting the pile, then leaned close and whispered, "Sheppard could pull that off, but I'm not sure about that guy. No disrespect!" he added hastily at her frustrated glare, "But I know I couldn't do it. He gets it wrong, Sheppard gets crushed by the hatch." Teyla sighed.

"Then lets disassemble the pile. Remove enough logs until we can stand upon them to lower John down to us."

"Yes, yes. I think that's the best we've got."

Teyla and Rodney hastily appraised Ronon and the lieutenant of the plan. Rodney took up the rope and wrapped it around his waist to hold John from falling into the pile if it shifted. She and Ronon and the lieutenant immediately began attacking the logs, grabbing as high as they could reach and pulling them out one by one to toss aside. Teyla was near tears by the second time the pile shifted, sending logs down the slope to pile up in an even more unsteady and treacherous jumble.

"You there, no closer!" barked one of the Marines, and Teyla turned to see two men, dressed in the uniform of the guards standing near the circle of marines, their hands raised.

"We want to help," one of them said softly, but with a defiant tilt.

"We got it," Ronon growled, throwing a huge log aside in frustration.

"We know how the pile was built. We can help you take it down safely."

Ronon shot a look at Teyla who shrugged.

"Let them through."

The Marines stepped aside and the two guards joined her, looking nervous, but eager to prove themselves. "The pile is built from the inside out. If you remove the _bottom_ logs on the outside edges, you can work your way in without them spilling." Teyla just nodded, and they started again, this time starting low.

Ten minutes after they'd started, twelve more marines jogged out of the darkening courtyard. The guard was shuffled, and eight more pairs of hands began to dig away at the pile. The two local guards put their backs into the work as eagerly as any of the marines, and once or twice called suggestions on which logs to pull next.

Perhaps twenty minutes after they'd begun, Ronon climbed over fairly stable logs and stretched upwards, just able to touch Sheppard's heel that hung over the topmost center.

"McKay, lift him up. I think I can pull him out now," Ronon bellowed, and Rodney added more weight to the rope, raising John's arms and then lifting him upright from the sprawl. Tears sprang again as John's pale body, illuminated by torches and flashlight beams, stretched bonelessly higher.

"Good, stop there." Ronon scrabbled for footing, then reached again, hooking both hands into John's now-dangling pantlegs. "Now, let him down."

Rodney moved forward and Ronon pulled at the same time, swinging John over the edge, then receiving him into his arms. When the rope was completely slack, Ronon carefully carried John, cradled like a child against his chest, to the eager circle of rescuers. Everyone was sweaty and smelled of kerosene. Teyla's hands felts oily and slick and she rubbed them on her pants before she shoved her way to Ronon's side, reaching for John's head, desperate to know if he...lived.

"He's alive," she said loudly when her fingers finally found the flutter of life at his neck. The words were joyful, but she heard the tremor in her voice. He was alive, but desperately ill. The odd, paper-dry quality of his skin and the shallow rasp of his breath frightened her. Ronon wasted no more time and once one of the marines had cut the ropes from John's hands, he turned towards the jumper. Teyla followed at his heels. The lieutenant barked a command and the marines began to regroup, planning to march back to the stargate together and leave the jumper free for Sheppard.

Ronon lay John on one of the back benches, then knelt beside him to begin a slow probing inspection. Teyla was wrestling the medical kit out of the overhead netting when the pilot rushed past, followed by the marine medic who would be accompanying them. Rodney was at the hatch, and Teyla paused as she overheard him speaking. A glance confirmed that he was talking to the two guards who'd helped them with the logs.

"So, why did you help us, after all? You people kidnapped him and brought him here? You had two days to help? Why now?"

Teyla flinched at the bluntness that only Rodney McKay could get away with, but she listened, curious about the answer.

"Letting him die that way wouldn't have helped _me_ any," the guard answered, his voice soft but proud.

"O...Kay?"

"I hope he survives. He was the...bravest pretty I've ever seen. I'll work to see that the festival does _not_ continue."

"_That_ sounds like a smart idea." There was a pause. "Go away now, we're leaving."

Teyla chuckled, then returned her concentration to John as the hatch whined shut and the pilot lifted the jumper off the ground before it had latched. Ronon and the medic were tearing open bags of saline and John already had a mask over his face, hissing with oxygen. She sat on the bench at John's head, not wishing to interfere, but needing to make her own evaluation.

She stroked his hair and felt quiet dispair at each abuse revealed. His face was caked with dried blood from his swollen nose. His lips were dry, cracked and split. His side was cherry-red with the welts of fresh abuse, and his arms were bruised from the elbows up. When Ronon and the medic rolled him briefly to inspect his back, they all gasped in unison and cursed at the day-old at least, overlapping stripes of deep bruises.

But what disturbed her the most was John's utter stillness. He seemed thinner, shriveled almost, as if his body had aged rapidly. As if...no! She shoved the irrational thought aside. His chest showed no signs of wraith feeding prints, but she was saddened beyond words at the thought of what those people had taken from him.

"You are safe, John," she murmured and received a flick of approval from Ronon. "We have you, and we are taking you home. You are safe." It was at that moment that the jumper entered the stargate and Teyla felt the familiar tingling as they plunged into the event horizon. Warm sunlight streamed briefly through the jumper's front window when they reached the other side to be replaced by the cool grey paneling of the jumper bay.

John twitched, perhaps reacting to the gate travel and Teyla smiled, pleased by any movement at all.

"And now you're home," she said.

John groaned, flicked his eyes open ever so briefly and whispered a single breathy word that might have been "home."

She waited patiently through the inevitable bustle of the Atlantis medical team, threw an encouraging smile at Elizabeth who was also hovering just outside the jumper hatch. Once John was on a gurney and traveling towards the infirmary, Teyla found herself waiting at the bottom of the hatch for Rodney and Ronon.

"You found him," Elizabeth said at last, then pulled a face, realizing that the words were so obvious as to be nonsense. Teyla just sighed, part relief, part worry.

"It was a very close call. A few minutes later and he would have been burned, tied to a stake. We stopped the 'festival' just in time."

"Oh my...god," Elizabeth breathed. "How could anyone...do that?"

Teyla shook her head. She didn't know either. Anger did strange things to people.

"But you found him," Elizabeth repeated, more confident this time. "Thank you. And you, too Ronon, Rodney." The men just shrugged. Teyla understood, thanks were not necessary.

"I'm going to wait on John," she said.

"I'm going, too," Ronon rumbled and Rodney just gave a 'lead the way' wave.

It was several hours later that Teyla found herself sitting in the infirmary with Ronon, Rodney and Elizabeth again. They'd gathered outside the door to the critical care room where John was finally resting peacefully. Carson had just emerged, smiling with his relief to report that, though he would need rest and medication for several days, that John was stable and would recover. A relieved contentment had fallen upon them.

"Did you figure out, WHY those people kidnapped John? I mean, of all the people in all the markets in the Pegasus galaxy, why John?" Elizabeth asked at last, rubbing her eyes and looking relaxed for the first time since they had returned.

Teyla started to answer, but Rodney's snicker beat her to it. "What?" Elizabeth demanded. "What's so funny?" It was clear that she found very little about the situation funny and Teyla agreed with her. Rodney was waving his hand in the air.

"Well, we'll have to ask Sheppard for sure, but the scenario we pieced together is that this 'festival' was a bunch of disgruntled ugly people who ceremonially take out their frustrations on a special someone who is very...um..."

"Normal," Teyla supplied, firmly.

"I was going to say _pretty_," Rodney finished, snorting again. "One of the employees in the bar you three stayed at on 227 saw Sheppard and Ronon flirting, liked what she saw, and nominated him. She even helped pull off the kidnapping."

"So, John was targeted because he's...?"

"Normal!" Teyla insisted.

"_Pretty_," Rodney giggled. "The woman's words, not mine! That guard fellow called him pretty, too."

"You could stop sounding so happy about it, Rodney," Elizabeth scolded fiercely. "John was nearly killed by those people!"

"I know, I know. It's just that this is the first time I've ever seen Sheppard's good looks and lady-killer charisma backfire quite so spectacularly. I get to enjoy it a little!"

"Rodney!" Teyla snapped. She understood Rodney's tendency to tease, but in truth, she'd never seen the misogynist traits in John that Rodney frequently ascribed to him. At least, not anything more than typical male conceit.

"Oh, come on. It's not like he doesn't know it. All that 'fluffing' and primping, bi-weekly trips to the barber, daily...power workouts...in...the..gym..."

Rodney trailed off as Ronon edged closer, looming over the smaller, softer man, deliberately flexing his impressively muscular arms.

"Jealous?"

"Of course not!" Ronon raised an eyebrow, leaned a little closer, but Rodney held his ground even though he'd started to sweat a little bit, "I'll take intellect and the ability to string a comprehensible sentence together any day over a, a pretty face and an overcompensating physique."

"Rodney!" shouted both Teyla and Elizabeth in unison. Rodney jumped, then rolled his eyes with an exaggerated shrug.

"It's not like I think of Sheppard that way," he snapped back, as if it were obvious. "He's got a decent brain inside that bony head of his - not nearly as advanced as mine of course, but for a military, flyboy, blow-everything-up type he's ahead of the usual - OK!" he yelped when Teyla raised a hand. "Just because he's a little too good-looking for his own good, doesn't mean I think he's superficial." Rodney paused, suddenly uncomfortable and Teyla exchanged a look with Ronon. Ronon grinned and thumped Rodney on the arm, sending him sideways and earning him another eye roll.

"I'll check in on Sheppard later. I want to take a shower...can't get the smell of the kerosene off my hands," Ronon rumbled, excusing himself. Elizabeth stretched and murmured a farewell as well, favoring Rodney with a final glare before she, too, left.

Rodney looked surprised to suddenly find himself standing alone with Teyla, but they were both soon looking contemplatively through the window at John, bundled in blankets, draped with tubes, but lying quietly.

"Carson said he'd lost just almost 10% of his body fluid mass. More than 11% is fatal," Rodney said softly and Teyla felt the shock numb her to her toes. Carson had told her John had been very close to serious dehydration, but Rodney always searched for the details within the facts to reveal the brutal truth. He went on, sounding as shocked as Teyla felt, "He's also down on body fat and muscle tone. Which means..." he blew out an angry breath, "that those people probably hadn't given him ANY food or water the entire 60 hours he was with them to lose so much, so fast."

"Their cruelty was...unfathomable," she answered softly, finding the words inadequate to the sentiment.

"I can't imagine not eating or drinking anything for more than two days."

Teyla had to supress a smirk at the horrified tone in Rodney's voice. For him, indeed, that would be particular torture. "It must have been very difficult," she agreed.

"I would have been dead, long before I found me," Rodney went on, still lost in his own musings.

"And yet, John survived," she interrupted before he could go on about his various medical conditions that would have contributed, no doubt, to his horrible demise. "He will be well again...if hungry!"

"No doubt." Rodney fell silent again for a few moments. "Those people got more than they bargained for when they kidnapped Sheppard. Anyone else _would_ have died under that kind of treatment. They picked him because he's...you know." Rodney rolled his eyes and twirled his finger, trying to look unimpressed.

"Normal," Teyla answered.

"Pretty," Rodney quipped. They both grinned. "But Sheppard's tougher than he looks. It's strange, too, because it also works the other way. I usually can't stand the military types. They act like you're nobody if you can't pound someone's head into the ground, but Sheppard...John, isn't like that. He's willing to think things through, too. Sometimes he even talks like a damn engineer and it's creepy. I wonder where he grew up?"

Teyla shrugged. She'd never heard John talk about his childhood or family...only that he had none now, other than his friends on Atlantis.

"I do not know. But what I do know is this - John's beauty comes from within. He is far more than just a "pretty" face." She spoke the words with heartfelt sincerity, rather pleased with the phrase she'd coined.

Rodney froze and tensed as if she'd just announced she had three heads. Puzzled and a little alarmed, she watched his jaw work, saw him bite his lips, then take a deep breath. He turned stiffly to look at her, jutted his thumb towards the door, then - still holding his breath - he squeaked, "I've got some work to do I'll be back later to check on Sheppard see you later bye!" in a single breathless rush. And then he bolted out of the infirmary like a man pursued by wraith.

She watched him go, then rolled her eyes. She would never understand that man. She turned to look at John, satisfying herself one last time that he was comfortable.

"Rest, my friend. You are safe and among those who treasure your deepest 'you'," she said softly, using the Athosian word that meant something closer to "soul".

"Rest and heal."


	6. Chapter 6 the Fish Tale

John sat in the cafeteria glaring at the large pile of food on his plate. Two bottles of sports drink and a cafeteria cup of water were lined up along the top of the tray, one of the bottles empty the other half gone.

"Hey! Good to see you getting around. This seat taken?" asked a voice at John's left elbow. He didn't have to look up to answer.

"Hi, Rodney. No. Go ahead. I'll be right back."

He could hear Rodney's chuff of exasperation as John leaped out of his seat to hit the latrine (again, he was drinking damn water all the time and getting rid of it just as fast, it seemed). By the time he'd returned, bringing another bottle of Gatorade with him, Ronon and Teyla had joined Rodney, arranged in their usual formation. John set the fresh bottle next to the other two and sat down, blushing and grinning at his team's warm welcome.

"When did the Doc let you out?" Ronon asked around his first large bite of food.

"Last night. He was finally happy with my electrolytes. I'm off duty for another day or two, though." As if the civvies he was wearing weren't enough of a clue. He was dressed in workout pants and a t-shirt and felt the right temperature for the first time in three days. The dehydration had done a number on his thermostat and he'd felt either too hot or two cold the entire time he'd been in the infirmary. Carson said it was because his chemistry was finally coming into balance. John was going to chalk it up to comfortable clothes and his own room.

"You take all the time you need to rest," Teyla said, acting as Carson's agent when the doctor wasn't around, as usual.

"It's not rest I'm short on. I'm _hungry_. And thirsty. All the time." He glared at his food again, his expression of disgust obvious to the rest at the table.

"How come you're not eating then," Ronon asked, waving a chicken leg in the air. John sighed and shoved the tray further away.

"I'm full. My stomach either shrunk or I'm so filled up with water that I can't eat any more. It's the damnedest thing. I feel like I just packed in Thanksgiving _and_ Christmas dinner in one sitting...but my brain keeps telling me I'm starving."

"Understandable," Rodney was nodding. "You're still craving calories to catch up what you lost. You're lucky. Carson's always on my back about dieting. You've got the perfect excuse to eat whatever you want and get away with it. Enjoy it while you can."

"McKay's right. You still look too scrawny. You need to eat high-calorie meals every few hours. Concentrate on dried fruit, beans, coarse bread, natural sugar like honey and fats like nuts." Ronon waved at Sheppard's plate full of mashed potatoes, white rolls and meatloaf. "That stuff's too starchy, too much fat. It fills you up before you get the kind of calories you need."

John raised an eyebrow, "When did you turn into a dietitian?" Ronon shrugged.

"Figured it out when I was running. I'd have to go days without food, then would have to catch up without slowing down. I had to be real careful not to lose too much body fat overall, but it was hard to gain."

"I'll take that as good advice, then."

"Never had to worry about water, though. Not usually." Ronon sounded sympathetic, and John fidgeted. "Just remember to do weight resistance training in lieu of cardio while you're bulking up. That'll keep the calories going into muscle instead of flab." Ronon chewed on his chicken with a pointed look at Rodney.

"What?" Rodney asked when he stopped eating long enough to realize everyone was looking at him. John chuckled. _This_ was why he ate with his team, even when he was grumpy. He'd been frustrated and worried that he wasn't getting his strength back as quickly as he wanted, despite Carson's reassurances. He felt both encouraged and cheered up.

"You hear anything from the teams that went back to the Festival planet? They have any luck finding that kid I told them about?"

Teyla and Ronon exchanged a very suspicious look. Ronon shrugged ever so slightly, giving the floor to Teyla.

"Sgt. Schriver's team returned a few hours ago. As you suspected, the people at the Festival came from many different worlds and most had already returned to their homes. The few that remained were taking down their temporary shops and packing up the last of the supplies."

John sighed. He'd expected as much, but he'd hoped someone might have known where the kid lived. And then he narrowed his eyes, gave Teyla the onceover. She squirmed.

"You said..._most_ had returned home?"

"Schriver got to talk to a few of them. You were also right that he was an excellent...representative to send."

John's nod was solemn. Schriver was the SGC's best "enemy" weapons expert. When John needed to learn how to use an enemy weapon, he went to Schriver. When John needed to know what he was going to be up _against_ - whether wraith, Genii, Goa'uld or...anything, he went to Schriver. Any time they picked something good up and brought it back, it went to Schriver first. The man had an uncanny ability to take any weapon apart and put it back together. And then he'd test the thing and write up a milspec as detailed as if he'd manufactured it himself. Rodney had been trying for months to get him to use his magic on other gadgets, but Schriver refused, saying that he only understood weapons - he could figure out what a designer wanted and why. John had pulled every string he could pull to get Schriver to Atlantis, and didn't begrudge a single favor he'd spent on making it happen.

Schriver had also been badly burned in an Ori engagement two years ago. The man's scarred face and permanently missing hair on one side gave him something of a bad-ass reputation among the younger troops, but he was damn good at what he did and _that_ was what he was known for. His morale and attitude were admired by everyone who spent ten minutes with him. John had called him in to explain the situation before recommending him to Lorne for the recon mission. Schriver had been hesitant - he hadn't pulled much off-base duty since the injury - until John had told him how much he wanted Schriver to show those messed up people what real pride was about.

"I knew he'd do great," John agreed. "Did they find the kid?"

"There was no boy named Merk on the planet at the time." Teyla was definitely stalling.

"But...?"

John grinned at Teyla's sigh of defeat. He had her number. "But a few of the remaining people were from the boy's world. They gave Schriver the gate address."

"Great!" John shoved his chair back and was starting to throw his trash onto the tray when Teyla put a restraining hand on his arm, correctly interpreting his intentions.

"You are still recovering, John. You are not cleared for gate travel for another week. Elizabeth's orders."

"I'm not going on a mission Teyla, I'm going on a visit. I just want to find the kid and get Carson's people to look at him, see if there's anything he can do."

"Carson and Elizabeth _both_ insisted that you wait a week. Not only for you to heal, but for tempers to cool. There may be members of the festival that still wish you harm, even more so because you defied the ceremony."

"But..." John sagged, seeing the determination and truth in her eyes. "Fine," he pouted. "I'll put a mission on the books for a week. Carson's going personally for that, though."

"I think he will accept those terms." Teyla's eyes were twinkling.

"What's so special about the kid?" Rodney asked. "You told us you only talked to him for a few minutes and that he got you some water."

"That IS what's so special about the kid." John was silent for a moment, knowing he wouldn't be able to explain without getting _poignant_. He took a deep breath and found himself looking at the ceiling...but he gave it a go: "You can't imagine what it was like, having every single person hate you so much without knowing so much as your name. Merk was the only person in that entire, be-damned place, that said so much as three kind words.

"And the water... the water saved my life. I hadn't had a drop in almost two days, save the drugged water. I was desperate. I probably wouldn't have made it through the next day without the liter that little boy stood in the rain to get for me. I definitely wouldn't have taken out the champion. You would have shown up to find me spread around that cage in little bits and pieces. I owe him," he finished softly and then fiddled with the bottle before he finished off the half-empty one. Just talking about that time made him thirsty.

"You said he was ill?" Teyla asked softly. John chuffed, hating the sympathy in her voice...for him.

"Yeah, he said it was his heart. I hope Carson can, well, do _something_."

"We'll go with you." John looked up at Ronon in surprise. He shrugged. "Sure. We owe the kid, too, if he did that much for you. We were too slow. If the kid kept your skinny butt around long enough for us to find you, then he's part of the team."

"Agreed!" chimed in Teyla, looking pleased. John looked at Rodney who gave a "whatever" wave, then grinned.

"Agreed," he repeated, softly.

"At least you won't be kidnapped for being _pretty_ anytime, soon," Rodney added chortling at his own joke. John and Teyla AND Ronon rolled their eyes at the line that was already getting _really_ old. "You sortof look like a mangy raccoon at the moment."

"Rodney!" Teyla scolded, sounding like someone close to handing out a smackdown. She'd been the most upset by Rodney's constant teasing and the most concerned about John's reaction to it. Rodney had a point, though. The face in the mirror this morning was definitely NOT pretty. His nose was still swollen and the double crescent of deep bruises under his eyes did give him a rather "masked" look. He'd shaved once in the infirmary since coming home, but hadn't bothered this morning - the scratches and scrapes on his face made the task too uncomfortable for mere vanity.

"I told you, _Rodney_ - those people called anyone who was normal a 'pretty'. It wasn't meant...nicely," John growled, shuddering for emphasis.

"Yes, yes. You told us. Let me know when you're going. I'll get my hair done."

John threw an empty bottle at Rodney who ducked and snatched for his tray before John could re-load. He grabbed John's tray, too, taking it to the dirty drop off in a rare gesture of thoughtfulness.

"Glad you're back on your feet," he called over his shoulder. John slouched back in his chair, enjoying the freedom to just sit for a while without duties calling him.

"Me, too," he answered, grinning. "Me, too."

* * *

John got the mission scheduled three days later on a technicality. Elizabeth had said a "week". She hadn't said a week from _what._ One week to the day from when he'd been _rescued_, John stepped through the gate and pulled out his sunglasses, half to block the mid-afternoon glare, half to hide the still-dark rings under his eyes. Teyla, Rodney and Ronon followed, then, after a brief wait, Carson puffed through the event horizon lugging a large medical kit.

"Let's move, people," John ordered cheerfully, ignoring Carson's plea for help with the bag to pick up the small duffel of his own he'd brought. Ronon finally took pity and they were soon marching into the village that spread along a cheerful brook only a few meters from the gate. He liked the times when he and his team strolled into town and made the perfect first impression - cheerful, friendly, badass - and today was one of those days. The traders noticed them first and he knew things were going well when the town magistrate was trotted out to meet them within the first hour of their visit.

Today, he let Teyla and Ronon do most of the talking. He hung back, kept his shades on and an eye out for anyone he might recognize and vice-versa. And for Merk, of course. Later that afternoon, after they had been treated to lunch at the magistrate's home John left the others doing their meet and greet thing, grabbed his duffel and wandered into the "residential" area of town. Here, the shops and government buildings gave way to simple houses and yards full of flowers and livestock. And children. John stopped to watch a pack of boys playing the same hacky-sack game the others had played in the rain, and then looked carefully into every shadow and porch and window around the neighborhood.

Still no Merk. Not allowing himself to get discouraged, he unzipped his bag and pulled out a couple of the things he'd brought. One of them was a football, the other a Frisbee. He tossed the ball into the air a couple of times and immediately had the attention of the kids. They watched him sidelong for a moment, then sidled closer.

"What you got?" one of the braver boys demanded.

"This? Nothing. Just the coolest ball ever invented."

"It's pointy. Don't look like no ball I ever seen."

"Ah, that's because it's not for bouncing, it's for throwing. And kicking." The kid looked skeptical, so John waved, "Go long! I mean, go over there and I'll throw it to you. No, further. A little more..."

When the kid was three houses away and snickering with his friends, "No one can throw no ball that far," John let fly. He had a decent arm and had managed to pull of a perfect spiral. The kid who'd been laughing made a little _whumfph_ of surprise when the ball landed neatly in his belly. He curled instinctively and caught it, then looked at it like it had magical properties.

"Give it!", "I want to try!", "Let me have it!" the kids all pounced on the dazed scoffer and John smiled. He'd pulled the football routine on at least a dozen worlds and it worked every time.

"Get off!"

The kid with the ball shook off the crowd and with a cocky gleam, drew back his arm. "Go long," he copied as if the words might invoke the magic. John chortled along with the rest of the kids when the ball tumbled end over end and landed in the street only a few meters away.

"There's a trick to it. You gotta practice," John said as he strolled over to scoop up the ball. A half hour later and a lot of patient instruction, several in the group had a passable game of catch going. The girls tended to gravitate to the Frisbee, a circle of them were figuring it out further down the street. With the kids occupied for the moment, John walked the length of the area, peering again into the porches and windows. A flicker of movement caught his eye behind a window, a face peeped out at the noisy group of kids, then disappeared again. John smiled.

"Colonel!" John turned to see Carson puffing up the street with his medical kit. "You find the lad, yet?" he finished as he drew close. John nodded but was interrupted again.

"Colonel Sheppard!" (John had insisted the kids use his formal title during introductions) "Show Mikel how far you can throw!" The boy who'd first tried out the ball demanded, towing a boy who had clearly just joined the group. They shoved the football into John's hands and stood expectantly. He winked at Carson and tossed the ball between his hands.

"All right, one more time. But you have to tell me something first."

"OK, sure."

"Is that Merk's house?" John pointed to the window he'd seen the face. The boys laughed and made panting noises, clutching at their chests with exaggerated drama.

"Merk the baby? Yeah, he lives there."

John just tossed the ball back and forth, his face stern, his body still until the boys realized he wasn't laughing with them and they stopped their pantomime, going a little nervous.

"Merk is my friend," John said at last, cocking his hip and resting his hand on his 9mm at the same time. They boys eyes went wide and they looked at each other then back at John.

"That's Merk's house, sir."

"Good! I've got something special for him." John waited until he was certain he saw a look of curiosity cross their faces and then he grinned. "Go long!"

The phrase had become something of a trademark and the whole pack, girls and boys, hooted with happiness and ran as far as they could go down the street. John flung the ball at the pack. Carson hooted along with the kids as they jostled and wrestled in a great jumble, each trying to catch the ball themselves.

"I take it we're going to the house," he said when John turned back.

"Yup."

Together they strolled onto the porch of the simple wooden house. There were a few toys on the porch and the flower boxes were spilling over with bright, alien-looking flowers. John was relieved, Merk had a nice home to live in. He'd come to loathe the people of the festival so deeply that he'd rather assumed the worst about them in all aspects. He knocked firmly on the door, then smiled with a respectful nod at the harried woman who opened it. She had a toddler on her hip and a dishrag in her hand and looked perfectly...normal.

"Hello, ma'am. My name is John Sheppard, this is Dr. Carson Beckett."

"Hello?" the woman responded but didn't offer her name.

"I, uh...We came through the stargate this morning and I came by to say Hi to Merk. We met...at the festival." John wasn't sure how exactly to explain that, but all mothers he'd ever met would demand some kind of reason why a grown man was asking about their kid.

"The festival?" her voice went suspicious.

"Yeah. Didn't end up quite like everyone thought it would. But I've got a present for him, and I need to thank him for something. And if you'll give your permission, Dr. Beckett is a very skilled healer. He'd like to examine Merk and see if there's something he can do for his heart."

John managed to keep his face straight at the flicker of hope that flashed over the woman's face.

"You can fix his heart?" she demanded.

"Well, we need to see what the problem is first, but I'll do what I can do."

"I...you'll have to talk to his Dad about doing any potions on him, but I suppose it's fine if you talk to him and look. Merk!" she finished with a mom bellow. The boy's face popped around the frame of the door immediately. He'd obviously been lurking and listening. "Merk! Oh, there you are boy. These men say they want to talk to you."

Merk hung his head and shuffled out the door to stand in front of them. John grinned, relieved that the boy was no longer limp and wheezing like he'd been at the festival. In the bright daylight, the child's over large forehead and slightly bulging eyes were even more obvious, but the eyes were sparkling green and flashed with intelligence.

"Hey, kid," John greeted softly, dropping down on one knee. The mother bustled back into the house, muttering something about food on the stove. "I'm glad I found you."

Merk looked puzzled, trying to do it in a '_so what's it to me_' kind of way. John took off his sunglasses and scrubbed at his hair, aware of Carson smiling in that annoying 'this is too cute' kind of way.

"You helped me out at the festival. Do you remember?"

Merk finally lifted his head to study John's face. John pantomimed getting a drink of water and Merk's eyes went suddenly wide and he backed up a step, breathing hard.

"You're the...you're the _pretty_!" he whispered looking around nervously.

"Yeah! You got me a drink. You saved my life. I had to find you to thank you."

"You fought the champion and won!"

"I did. I won because you gave me that drink of water when I really needed it." Merk's face blanched.

"Uncle was really mad you won. And then, when the metal bird swooped down on everyone, we got scared and ran away."

"Sorry about that. My friends were in the metal bird. They came to take me home, help me get well. My friend Carson," John waved at the doctor who gave Merk a small wave back, "fixed me up."

Merk looked Carson over, then looked at John, that wise expression back on his young face.

"You said you had a present for me?"

John laughed, long and loud until even Merk grinned. "Yes. I brought you a thank you gift. And then Carson's going to check your heart and see if he can do anything to make you feel better."

"What's in the bag?" Merk demanded, single minded.

Giving up, John just plopped himself on the porch steps, patted the spot next to him and opened the bag. Merk watched wide-eyed as John pulled out a large, bright red helicopter and radio remote. He presented it to the boy who was too stunned to do anything but gape, so John started talking.

"I know you have trouble running and playing, so with this toy you can fly high in the sky without moving around at all. It's a helicopter."

"It flies?" Merk was entirely skeptical.

"Yeah. Remote control. I had Rodney rig up a better power source so you won't run out of battery...in your lifetime at least. It's not too hard to figure out, but be careful around trees and never fly it too close to other kids or people."

"Ok," Merk sounded like that wasn't a problem he was worried about having.

"Let me show you."

John flipped the switches to turn everything on, put the helicopter on the ground in front of him, then pressed the throttle lever. The blades began to spin, then lift the body up off the ground. When the toy was hovering at about eye-level, John gently nudged the tail rotor lever and tipped the nose to send it forward in a large circle.

"Wow!" Merk breathed, his eyes shining. John brought it back and lowered it to the ground.

"Your turn. And don't worry if you don't get it right away. Takes a lot of practice to get the feel. It'll take a few crashes. Go ahead."

Merk took the control box and with some coaching and a nudge of the thumb or two, was able to rev the blades enough to lift it off the ground and lower it again with only a small...flop.

By this time, the buzz of the motor and the odd thing flying around on the street had attracted the kids again. Not entirely able to keep the gloating smirk off his face, John watched the boys who'd acquired the football stare in utter jealousy, their own prize forgotten.

"Show your friends how it works, Merk," John encouraged. Merk looked bashful for a minute, uncertain about the attention, but he pushed the throttle and lifted the 'copter off the ground to hover all by himself. He actually had a pretty good touch for a kid who'd never even played a video game. When the children crowed with delight, Merk busted into a wide grin...and took the toy even higher. With a gleam of daring, he tried moving it forward, too. It wobbled, shot forward, then dropped. The kids raced to pick it up and Merk's face went horrified. John just waited.

A second later, a girl ran back, put the helicopter at Merk's feet. "Do it again, Merk! Make it fly again!" she shrieked.

The look of pleasure on Merk's face - that moment when he realized that _he_ was the one with all the attention and all the power - _THAT_ was what John had been waiting for. He leaned his elbows back on the porch and watched Merk fly the helicopter again, getting better with each pass. Whenever it fell, a kid would fetch it and bring it back to him.

"I guess my exam will have to wait," Carson chuckled and sat next to John. Merk's mother was standing in the doorway, tears sparkling in her eyes as the children laughed and cajoled, no begged, Merk to play.

John sighed, deeply content.

"Carson," he said. "It doesn't get any better than this." The doctor didn't answer right away so John looked at him, surprised to find him being studied ferociously. "What?"

Carson just grinned. "You're right of course, Colonel. It's the small pleasures in life that seem to mean the most, once you take the time to notice."

John looked at the boys who'd made fun of Merk, now happily chasing the 'copter around and fetching it back for him. "And the smallest differences that make for the most trouble," he added softly, thinking of his father again for the first time since...the festival. "Maybe someday people will figure out how to accept each other for who they are."

"That would be lovely."

John knew full well that his trick with Merk was just that - a trick. As soon as the cool toy was broken or forgotten, the boys would most likely resume their taunting. But perhaps, just perhaps, Merk would be able to see it different. Perhaps, he'd see _himself_ different and decide he didn't care what the others thought. Maybe, someday, John thought, he would, too.

"Someday."

* * *

_A/N: OK, the fish story (probably not worth it after the buildup ;-)_

_More than two years ago, my son picked out a silver, black and yellow cichlid for our 30 gallon tank in the kitchen. We named him "skunk" because the black and silver went down his back just like a skunk stripe. Skunk is big and badass and proceeded to kill every other fish we put in that tank, even other cichlids. For a year, it was a "one-fish" tank as Skunk would harass any new fish literally to death before they got a chance to acclimate and fight back. About six months ago, we saw a gorgeous and HUGE, brilliant iridescent blue cichlid at the fish store. Hubby and kids had to have it, so we put a mesh tank divider to separate BJ (blue jay) the new fish from the mean old Skunk._

_Skunk is now a really nasty, splotchy, battle scarred (lost one eye to ick), and certifiably insane fish. He attacks the net divider constantly, trying to get to BJ. His aggression is really...scary. BJ is gorgeous and beautiful and (now that he knows he's safe) just kindof looks at Skunk like "whatever".  
_

_SO, I was watching insane Skunk attack the net, I started imagining a scenario where Shep (the beautiful fish, of course) was caged with an insane crazy person who of course at some point would be let loose for Shep to deal with. When I sat down to write it, I thought about how we have the fish purely for recreation, how we like the pretty fish for purely superficial reasons. And how we dote on BJ and only tolerate the ugly (crazy) Skunk. Oh, well, analogy gone bad, but came out to be an OK story, if 100% completely indulgent and sappy at the end.__ I'm going to put pictures of the fish up on my LJ page when I post the story there, search for user "tepring" if you want to see them._

_Thanks for reading, t'pring_


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